A Profound Connection
by LiveToLie
Summary: Destiel short stories, one-shots, and drabbles. Ratings posted per fic. Stories still being added as written.
1. One Night

_Dean and Cas check into a motel following the confrontation with the Rit Zien, the angel murdering people after zeroing in on their pain. What happens between them that night is more than either had anticipated, but perhaps not wholly unexpected. Takes place during S09 EP06, "Heaven Can't Wait."_

_Rated M for sexual content._

**One Night**

He did feel kind of bad for the guy. In a patronizing, pitying way – which was why he wasn't saying anything. He wasn't quite positive, because he hadn't been there, but it wasn't too difficult to put the pieces together. He'd only burst in on that woman's house because the light had been on, and the truck of course. He'd expected to find Cas with his lady friend, maybe doing unseemly things. Not with a baby.

It was funny, in a cute way, that Cas had so terribly misunderstood what was happening with his "date." Babysitting wasn't exactly Dean's idea of a romantic getaway after all. And he had the feeling, based on the way Cas was sitting at the end of his bed refusing to say anything, that he was ashamed of his own mistake. After he'd gone on that long charade of how well he was doing as Steve, and then boasted about his date, well, anyone would be embarrassed.

Especially since there'd been a layer of defensiveness lacing his words concerning the matter.

This last bit made Dean feel guilty, more so than anything. Part of him practically lurched forward, as if wanting to spill his guts all over the floor. Yet the thought of Sam, and Ezekiel, stopped him. He'd made the decision to kick Cas out of the bunker and it was a choice he still stood by. He thought. He hadn't _had_ a choice, right? Because if he hadn't made his friend leave, the angel inside Sammy would have run off. And Sam always came first. If Cas had his powers, he'd be the one healing his little brother, but he didn't, and Dean had had to make some choices.

Even if they did make him feel like a horrible, despicable human being.

Still quite blatantly staring at Cas's profile, he tightened his lips at the dejected, hopeless expression torn there. Like this failed date, and what had transpired with that crazy ass angel, had ripped Cas's whole world apart. Or, rather, the new existence he'd made for himself.

Dean gulped.

"Hey, look here," Dean forced one of his trademark smiles onto his face as he stood. "This is my kind of motel. Mini bar and everything." Going to the fridge on the far side of the room, he cracked it open, pulled out a bottle, and popped the top. He looked to Cas after, whose sad, droopy eyes had turned up to watch him. "You want one?"

"Sure," he replied, voice heavy and dead. Pursing his lips, Dean retrieved another before kicking the fridge closed and making his way over to Cas. Sitting down on the bed beside him, he pried off the cap to Cas's bottle before handing it to him.

"Hey, don't be so broken up." He'd try the old pep talk. "I've been turned down by plenty of women. I know that may sound surprising," another smile, but Cas wasn't looking at him, "but it's true." He took a drink. A long, cold, guilty drink.

"You don't have to stay here Dean," Cas cut right through the outside pleasantries, still refusing to meet Dean's eye, which caused the other man's expression to falter with unease. "I'm perfectly fine going back to the Gas-N-Sip. I've been sleeping there since I got the job."

"Hey now," Dean was finding it more and more difficult to remain forcefully positive. Maybe that was his own punishment. Cas was homeless after all, and it was his fault. "Don't refuse a night of pure luxury," he patted the bed, "and… top notch beverages." He held up the beer, thankful when Cas finally looked up at him.

He smiled again, hoping it'd do… something.

"I _can_ take care of myself," Cas replied, that hint of defensiveness back in his voice again. The sound of it was like a knife constantly poking Dean in the rips. "I don't need charity." The way he said it though, it was accusing. He didn't need _Dean's_ charity. Not after he'd been the one to kick him out on his own in the first place. Without anything and barely any knowledge of how to function as a human. He didn't want help, and he wanted it least from Dean.

"C'mon Cas," Dean said quietly, finally beginning to give in a little. "I know this is a shitty situation. Really. But you are doing pretty well." Sort of. "Don't refuse a bed just because you're pissed at me." He took another long drink, not surprised when he pulled the bottle back to see it already below half. Hey, he drank his stress.

"I'm not 'pissed' at you Dean."

"Don't lie Cas, you're not any good at it."

"That's not true!"

Dean cocked a single, skeptical brow, which resulted in Cas dropping his shoulders in a defeated sigh.

"I'm not angry with you Dean," he persisted, both of them knowing better. Still, it wasn't the lasting kind of anger. Cas wasn't the type to hold grudges, at least against Dean. Never against Dean. Time, that was what he needed. "I'm just frustrated."

Dean pooched his lips thoughtfully before taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I get that. Being human isn't all pie and… pizzamen." He smirked, more so because Cas had scoffed a chuckle and a small smile than because his comment had been funny.

"Dates are something humans do," Cas started after a moment, finally taking a drink. "I fear I'm going to make about as good a human as I did an angel." Which wasn't a compliment.

"Hey, you're new to this," Dean reached around and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Give yourself some credit. And besides…" He cleared his throat, his hand falling away to land back around his beer. "Guys like us, well, we're not exactly the type a woman like her – Nora?" Cas nodded, "not exactly the kind of guys a chick like her would go for."

He took another drink, Cas casting him a questioning look. Which was message enough for Dean to continue.

"She's a single mom, you know, with a full time job," he looked at Cas knowingly. "And you're a, well, like you said, you're a sales associate." Cas wasn't understanding what he was alluding to. "That not a good investment, you know?"

"You mean that… that going on a date with me wouldn't be wise?"

"For someone in her situation, yeah. She's looking for things that guys like you and me can't give her. A woman like that, with a kid, she's not going to be looking for sales associates."

"I don't understand," Cas admitted. "I mean, I understand what you're saying about me, but you keep referring to yourself as well." Naturally, that was what drew Cas's concern, not his own financial stability, or lack of it. "You were with Lisa, and Ben."

"Yeah, and I wasn't any good for them," he replied bitterly. "It's the same kind of thing. Lisa just… didn't know any better." Cas still wasn't totally comprehending, the way his head tilted making that totally clear. "All I know is hunting and cars. I've got a GED; I'm a grunt. I had a construction job, sure, but the baggage otherwise was too heavy." He was thoughtful, a scene from one of those musicals he secretly watched coming to mind. "Everybody's got baggage. The knack is finding some that goes with yours. Girls like Lisa, and Nora, their baggage isn't the kind that goes with ours. They've got those fancy, rolling suitcases – kinda empty, but full of expectation. You and me, we're more like duffels. Easy to move from place to place, stuffed full of useless shit, not much room for anything else. And nothing good to give otherwise."

Cas contemplated his words for a moment, watching as he raised his beer to his mouth again and took a drink. It was nearly empty. The thought reminded him of his own, spurring him to also take a sip of the harsh tasting liquid before speaking. "You're being a little hard on yourself, don't you think?"

"What?"

"It was a poetic metaphor," because Dean could speak quite eloquently, and intelligently, when he wanted to, "but not entirely true. Maybe you're right about compatibility, but I know you have plenty to offer that's useful."

"Cars and monsters," Dean nodded, his expression somewhat sour. "That's it."

"That's not what I was referring to. Maybe I'm not the most successful human, but I'd be lost completely were it not for what I learned from you." Dean's brows furrowed. "Of all the humans I've met, you're the best example I've come across."

"Ha!" His laugher came out as cynical. "Yeah, okay." Dean finished off his beer. "I don't know about that," Cas was frowning at him, "but I guess if you managed to learn something, that's good."

"You should give yourself more credit."

Dean waved him off as he stood, which didn't much reassure Cas, but he supposed it was better to drop the subject. He knew Dean didn't like talking about such things, which was why Cas had become accustomed to reading his expressions. Still, he did pride himself on getting more out of Dean than most.

Dropping his empty bottle into the trash by the fridge, Dean soon retrieved another before going to the small television sitting on the stand in the corner. The remote was sitting on top, so he grabbed it before heading back over to the bed. Sitting on Cas's left, he switched on the tube, skimming the channels while reaching down to untie his boots. About the time he was kicking them off, he saw a familiar title flash through the guide, a smile coming to his face.

"Dr. Sexy marathon," he smiled up at Cas, who gave him that trademark curious look. "Watch a few before we hit the hay?"

"Hit the what?"

"Oh, this is a good one," Dean gestured for Cas to look to the television. In the same moment, he scooted back in the bed, leaning up against the pillow. He reasoned that he wouldn't be able to watch from his bed, the far one, and so didn't object when Cas copied his actions. Side by side, legs stretched out and folded at the ankles, they watched, Dean quite happy to do so. After all, it wasn't like he could watch Dr. Sexy when Sam was around. That'd just get him made fun of. Cas though, well, he didn't know well enough to judge, so Dean didn't have to worry about it.

"I don't quite understand," Cas started halfway through the second episode. "I mean, Dr. Sexy is clearly capable, but I don't see anything beyond typical to justify his name. Certainly he's attractive, but…"

"What?" Dean was clearly aghast. "You're joking, right?" He wasn't. "That's- he's-" Dean sighed, disappointed. "Dr. Sexy is the sexiest M.D. That's the whole point."

"You think he's sexy?" Cas asked straight.

"Well yeah," Dean gestured sharply to the television screen, where the good doctor was bedding a nurse on an operating table. "Look at him!"

"I am," Cas was peering at the television again. "And I don't see anything overly sexy about him." Dean was staring at his friend in silent irritation. "He's cold and brooding, and hardly has any natural charm. Not socially dependable." Cas looked back at Dean. "He's not clean shaven, his hair is a mess. If anything, he's a complete disaster."

"Take that back," Dean demanded, causing Cas to cock an eyebrow. "Don't you get it, that's exactly what _makes_ him sexy. He's got that whole… dark, handsome, scruffy thing going for him. Undependable, sure, but he keeps 'em guessing. And he is too charming. Just in a silent, measured kind of way."

"Unlike you."

"Well," Dean did have to give him that. "I'm a different kind of sexy."

"I prefer your charm to Dr. Sexy's," Cas admitted, looking back to the television.

"While I appreciate the compliment, you should watch who you criticize," Dean looked back to the television as well. "You and Dr. Sexy have a lot in common." This drew Cas's eyes back his way. "You know, that whole… scruffly, messy look. I can't pull it off, but you…" he nodded, still watching the show. "I see it."

"Thanks?" Cas eyed the screen a little differently when he looked back. "If I and Dr. Sexy have so much in common, why is it that I can't attract anyone?"

"Why are you so worried about that all of a sudden?" Dean replied shortly, looking back at him.

"I don't know," he admitted, seeming to slump back against the pillow. "I think it might have something to do with being human." Analytical as ever. "When I was an angel, it wasn't something I was at all preoccupied with. Not to say I didn't value the company of others – you and Sam are my friends – but that I simply didn't require any such closeness."

"Which you do now?"

Pause. "It's cold," he said quietly. "Being on your own."

Dean knew what he meant – exactly what he meant – and felt guilty for it all over again.

"Hey, you'll get used to it," he said gently, reaching out and patting Cas reassuringly on the thigh, just above his knee. "Not gonna say it'll be fun, but you'll learn to ignore that kind of stuff eventually."

"Like you do?"

"Well, yeah," Dean's hand retreated, his arms crossing over his chest. "You take it when you can get it and learn to deal the rest of the time."

"You don't desire a significant other?" Cas inquired, ever curious.

"I've learned not to hope for what I'll never have," he shrugged. "Besides, I'm not like Sam. I like hunting, you know, helping people. That kind of gig doesn't give much time for anything else."

"Certainly there's someone out there who is similar," Cas tried to reason. "Someone who shares your same lifestyle."

"Maybe," Dean shrugged, "but, if you hadn't noticed, people who get close to us don't always last. It's better to just… keep a healthy distance." He smirked, their eyes meeting again. "I think you're the only exception. I mean, you've probably met some quota by now. Known me and Sam for six years and you're still around." Kevin was in the running, as it were.

"You act as though you and your brother were cursed."

"We're sure not good luck."

"Were you not just going on about baggage? There must be someone with… matching luggage to yours."

"I'm not worried about it," Dean shrugged, trying to focus back on the television. "I got Sam. We've got similar baggage."

"He's your brother," Cas deadpanned.

"Yeah, so," Dean shrugged. "And I got you," he slapped him good-humoredly on the leg again.

"Our baggage goes together?" Cas was looking up at him from under those dark lashes.

"Sure," Dean nodded, that penetrating stare, which he'd seen so many times before, still as heavy on his chest as ever. It had this habit of taking his breath away. "You know it does Cas," he said breathily, his voice quite ahead of his brain. He was on his third beer by that time (Cas was still nursing his first) and knew he was probably saying things he shouldn't. But it was so easy to feel at ease around Cas, to feel safe, which only lowered his inhabitations more.

And Cas, who wasn't exactly well versed in holding his alcohol, was feeling far too warm and comfortable beside Dean. Some of it he supposed was attributed to the haze floating around in his head, some to the mere fact that he wasn't sleeping alone in the back of a store on a sleeping bag, but instead sitting beside another warm body – which belonged to one of the few people in the entire world he knew he could trust. Because, though Dean had kicked him out of the bunker, it was Cas's trust in him, despite being initially angry, that spurred him to believe Dean had done what was necessary. What he, at least, thought needed to be done. And if there was any judgment Cas thought he could have faith in, it was Dean's.

For all their history together, Dean was his best friend.

His most treasured.

"Cas…" His name came whispering from between Dean's lips, the fact that they'd been staring at each other for some few seconds longer than was acceptable not getting by either of them. But, like always, Dean had a hard time tearing himself away. Because of everyone he knew, everyone in his life, Cas was the only one that looked at him that way. That saw through every defense he had without judgment or bigotry or prejudice like so many other humans, including himself, were prone to. Like his soul was bared completely.

He tried, really, to give Cas that same experience, but he knew it was impossible. Because Cas wasn't jaded by human emotion as Dean was. By societal expectations that brought redness to his cheeks as the seconds continued to slowly tick by. They urged him to turn away, to end the connection. But the two were alone, even if for just one night. And Dean had maybe had a little too much to drink, and Cas was lonely, out on his own at Dean's fault.

And Dean missed him.

He didn't know exactly how it'd happened, how Cas's lips had ended up only a hairs breadth from his own, but Dean could feel heated breath against his face, his stare blinking back into Cas's before falling to follow his nose to that slightly open mouth. His full lips that seemed to pull up a little too far, delicately pointed. Back to his eyes. Blue. Bluer than blue.

"Dean," Cas said his name breathily, the sound still weighed with gravel and intentions and things that sent Dean's blood from his face downward. Things he thought about sometimes, but was usually too distracted to really entertain. Yet there they were, side by side, no sign of interruption in sight. One night.

Just one night.

Despite how his nerves tried to hijack him, Dean pushed through, willing courage through his system. Locked in eye contact with Cas, he gulped, lightning jolting through him as his nose brushed just gently against Cas's. As their foreheads came lightly together, lips dancing closer and closer.

Dean closed his eyes – perhaps a little tighter than he needed to. Because if he didn't, he was afraid he might chicken out. And Cas, who found his whole body sizzling with an excitement he'd never experienced before, carefully, hesitantly, closed the distance between them. He pressed his lips just barely to Dean's, his own lashes falling closed. The touch was tentative and fueled by all that was known but unsaid. Butterflies against Dean's lips.

Light, but there nonetheless. It was enough to break the levee inside Dean. For the water to come rushing forth, pushing him closer. Reaching out, his hand went instinctively to the back of Cas's neck, his body turning on the bed as he pulled the kiss more thoroughly against him. The contact deepened, Cas – who was lacking far more in experience than Dean – reaching out and gripping at Dean's leg if only for leverage. Brows scrunching, Dean sucked that top lip between his own, his breath gasping as he did. Because he was kissing Cas, one of his dearest friends, and it was okay.

It was perfect.

Cas knew, despite a handful of other times, that he was lacking greatly in experience in comparison to the man that was now sucking the sheer breath out of him. But he didn't care. Because it was Dean and, if there was anyone who'd be understanding about that, it was him. For all of Dean's rough and tumble image, he was really quite the opposite – one of the things Cas found so endearing about him.

Holding Dean's leg tighter, he breathed in that familiar scent of leather and alcohol, of spice and sweat and steel. When he'd been an angel, he'd been able to make out such things rooms away, but as a human he'd been quite without that ability, being so close to Dean then rushing him into a lightheaded euphoria that sent heat plummeting down between his legs. Quite without warning, a moan escaped his throat, one that spoke more than words ever would have.

The sound pulled Dean momentarily out of the kiss. It was a noise so charged, so drawn, that he had to pause if only to get ahold of himself. It was one of the most erotic, sensual sounds he'd ever heard, his jeans tighter in that moment than they had been in a long time.

And the look on Cas's face, his head tilted back into Dean's hand, was nearly too much. Dean had to take a deep breath if only so he didn't ruin it all.

"Cas," he breathed heavily, his lungs heaving as he gulped, licking his lips. Those blue eyes opened, staring down at him darkly and full of lust. More physically penetrating than ever before. "Cas," he said his name again as he leaned down, his lips finding the corner of that sharp jaw, "I _need_ you."

Those words, oh how they both knew them. How important they were.

They meant everything.

"You can have me Dean, you know that," Cas assured, his hands coming up to reach around, gripping Dean's t-shirt tightly while those lips travelled down his neck. "I'm yours."

Fingers falling to Cas's sides, Dean leaned forward, over the other man as their eyes fell closed once more. The heated skin he kissed at hungrily tempted him further, his hands soon sliding up and taking the other man by force. Pulling him down, he was soon lying back against the pillows, Dean placing himself over him fully as he continued to ravage his neck.

Breathing labored, Cas's eyes popped back open at the rough handling, his hands becoming claws against Dean's shirt. He could feel the other man's warmth through the fabric, the idea of friction between their bodies spurring him to do something about it. Bunching the thin piece of clothing into his fists, he began to roughly pull it upward, Dean registering well enough what he was doing and making it that much easier for Cas to yank the offensive object up over his head. Allowing it to fall to the floor, his hands went immediately to Dean's heaving chest, the other man sitting back in his lap as Cas surveyed his thick, muscular figure.

Fingers deft and intentional, Dean began to undo the buttons to Cas's dress shirt, chest soon exposed and victim to searching fingers. Dragging his hands back beneath Cas, he easily lifted the other man up, their lips meeting again as Cas's fingers came up to grip at the other man's shoulders. Dean wanted the shirt gone however, which meant it was soon being shrugged from Cas's shoulders before being discarded over the bed. Bare skin on skin, they pulled at one another, Cas's hands falling to Dean's back pockets as he pulled him more securely into his lap. Groaning some against the tight heat that rubbed through their jeans, Dean hugged Cas as close to him as he could, every brush his arms made against warm flesh, every rub their chests made against one another, sending him farther and farther from any sense of logic.

Lips smashing clumsily together, their actions soon began to lose grace, both quite overwhelmed with their need of the other. Pushing forward, Dean laid Cas back into the bed again, his lips falling down to that scruffy chin from which he began to dot kisses down, down, down to his throat, which gulped as sweat began to form between them. Leaving burning marks in their wake, Dean ran his fingers down Cas's sides as his lips found his chest, his nails knocking at every one of his ribs, tight and wanting.

Cas's hands were in Dean's hair, pulling greedily as he registered each heated touch the hunter trailed across his torso. His abdomen quivered with anticipation, Dean's body beginning to shimmy downward as his tongue left a scalding path down to the rim of Cas's jeans. Fingers dragging to his button and zipper, Cas's hips bucked quite unconsciously as the heavy fabric was loosened. Taking hold of the edge of his pants and boxers, Dean began to tug them downward, his eyes trained on Cas's erected need, now exposed to the chill of the room.

With legs pulling quite willingly from the confining jeans, Dean dropped Cas's clothing carelessly at the foot of the bed, the man now totally naked before him. Knees bent, Cas was staring at him, the desire in his eyes only intensified by his vulnerable position. Crawling back up the bed, Dean soon found himself between Cas's legs, his hands running down his muscular, tanned thighs, all the while their eyes caught up in one another. It wasn't until Dean leaned down that the connection broke, his lips finding the inside of Cas's thigh, his hands gripping them equally. The contact pulled a growling gasp from Cas, whose fingers had found the sheets and were grasping them tightly.

Breathing in the smell of sweat and need, Dean nosed his way up to the base of that desire, his tongue soon dragging along the shaft as Cas trembled before him. With experience in more things than he was really willing to admit, Dean was soon taking Cas wholly into his mouth, his lips sucking as the body beneath him jolted and bucked.

He could tell Cas wouldn't hold out long however, be it due to lack of experience or simply – like in Dean's case – because their situation was too heavy and charged to really control. He drank Cas in and out for a moment, the labored moan that echoed around the room telling him just how close the other man was. Which was why he soon let him go, Cas whimpering some as the cold air assaulted him once again. Ever intent however, Dean was soon distracting the ex-angel with other ideas, his lips once again trailing down between Cas's heated thighs. As if wanting to meet him, Cas's hips rose, Dean's attention falling down to the heated entrance that he was quite positive no one but himself had ever touched so.

He got a delicious kind of satisfaction out of the fact that Cas was complete putty in his hands. Fingers gripping almost territorially at the ass pulling his attention, he allowed his tongue to do the exploring that was sending Cas into a delirious mess. He knew just as well as Cas that it was more than what he was physically doing – that it was the fact that it was the two of them, touching, discovering, intimately getting to know one another in ways they never had before, that was sending them both into euphoric states of pleasure. Which was why Dean pressed on despite not having the tools he knew would make it less painful. They'd just have to make do with what they had, because they certainly weren't stopping.

Leaving as much wetness behind as he could, Dean pulled one of his hands between Cas's thighs, taking a single finger between his lips to get it as ready as possible before allowing it to find that waiting opening. Eyes flicking up, he watched as Cas's whole body jerked as he entered, his hands in his own hair as he groaned. He leaned into the touch, submerging Dean's finger more fully. His wanton display of desire, despite how painful it may have been, forced Dean to steady his own breathing. He focused his attention on the preparation necessary, his fingers expertly penetrating until he located that one spot that nearly sent Cas over the edge.

A second finger, Cas was whining his name. A third and the sound of his voice was nearly too much to bear.

Leaning up while still keeping on with his stroking, Dean used his other hand to reach for his own pant's button, quickly undoing it before doing the same for the zipper. Forcefully shoving his jeans down his thighs, he did the same for his own boxers, pulling himself free while removing his fingers. Not bothering with the patience needed to remove his pants entirely, he instead leaned over Cas, who was staring up at him as he did.

"This might hurt," he warned through heavy breathing.

"I don't care," Cas made forcefully clear, his hands coming up to grip at Dean's shoulders. With his legs between Cas's, Dean could feel the way the other man's hips surged upward, begging for attention, which Dean was more than willing to give. Pressing his hips down against Cas's, he reached back between them, situating himself before slowly pressing his own need against that warm entrance. Cas clawed tighter at his shoulders, the expression on his face becoming feral as Dean pushed himself in further and further. Until, finally, he was engulfed entirely, Cas's throat resounding with a loud moan that echoed more so of pleasure than pain. Because they'd both experienced much worse, which made any kind of hurt hardly a variable.

Body sunk against Cas's, Dean felt a groan escape between his teeth as he buried himself as fully as possible. Knees against the bedding, he allowed the tightness to envelop him totally, his fingers clawing at the sheets on either side of Cas.

For a moment he allowed the sensation to fill him completely, his eyes closing as he bit his lip and realized just how deeply he was touching Cas in that moment. A moment that his body was soon issuing he repeat.

Over and over and over again.

Pulling back until he was nearly out completely, he then thrust himself forward again, Cas gasping beneath him, seeming to flounder in the sheets as Dean began to slowly develop a rhythm. Bodies flush up against one another, he was soon plunging himself in and out, making sure to hit that single spot that sent Cas moaning every time. Each breath he took bounced around the room, Dean reaching between them and taking hold of Cas's length, beginning to pump him in tandem with their pattern.

Hands skimming down Dean's back, Cas was soon gripping his ass hard enough to leave bruises, willing their hips to collide harder, faster, more aggressively. A fact over which Dean had little complaint. Their tempo soon became erratic, Dean beginning to slip out of control. And Cas, who'd held out for about as long as he could, was soon gone, his whole body tensing.

"_Dean_!" his gravelly voice groaned loudly, his whole body arcing upward as he reached release. Still held tight in Dean's pumping hand, everything was let go, the sight of Cas's body giving out beneath him pushing Dean even closer. Hands falling to the sheets, Cas's eyes, which had previously been closed in ecstasy, opened again, that blue bleary as his body spun out of the high.

And Dean, staring down at him while his hips continued to work, gritted his teeth as his blood rushed him over the cliff. Slipping, he arms became weak, his chest sinking as he pumped those last few seconds into Cas. Cas, who could see that he was losing it, was getting out of control, and reached up tiredly to catch him. Foreheads leaning together, Dean closed his eyes, aware of the way his thrusting weakened, his body releasing, engulfed in the man beneath him. Mouth gaping, he was silent, Cas watching in erotic fascination as his pleasure stretched across his whole expression, the sheer force of their actions breaking any shields he had against revealing what he felt.

He let everything go, Cas's strong arms, despite their exhaustion, holding him steady as he twitched what was left in him against the ex-angel. Breathing out heavily, he gasped, his chest heaving as the final throws of their foray fled him. Faint and in a state of leftover ecstasy, Dean's whole body fell heavily atop Cas, whose hands gripped and caught him tightly. One arm wrapping around his back, Cas pulled Dean as close to him as possible, his other hand sifting through his short, dirty-blonde hair.

Bodies sweaty, breathing heavy, they lay without a word, both their brains a little too frazzled to think anything coherently. The only direct voice within the room was emitted from the television, where Dr. Sexy was beginning a new episode, one neither of the men had the attention span to hear.

Instead, warm and feeling quite safe in their own bubble of a world, Cas soon registered that Dean's breathing had evened, the familiar sound of his sleep only aiding in reminding Cas just how exhausted he was too. Within the moment, they'd both drifted off, the shaking of their motel room only disturbing the overhead light as a train rattled by outside.

They slept, wrapped up in one another, more soundly than either had in a long time (or in Cas's case, ever). However, one night didn't erase years of a hard life, Dean only managing to get in his usual four or five hours before his eyes slowly cracked open. Blinking slowly, he registered that he was still lying quite comfortably atop Cas, who's soft snoozing was a more comforting sound than any of the women Dean had ever woken up with. Probably because, with Cas, he wasn't waking up full of insecurity or the want to get away as soon as possible. He was rarely gifted with such a luxury, his trust and comfort level with Cas almost taking himself by surprise. But, ultimately, it didn't. He and Cas had fought countless battles together, been there for one another through thick and thin, and that wasn't something a romp in the sack could disrupt. If anything, it only cemented to Dean how much Cas meant to him (a fact he'd already been quite aware of). It was strange, especially when considering how sex usually went over. Cas was his friend, really, above anything else. It wouldn't matter if they slept together every night for the rest of their lives, that was where it all ended. Because Dean knew there wasn't an appropriate way to label what was between them, Cas's "profound bond" perhaps coming closest. And he honestly didn't have a desire to put a label on it. "Friends" was good enough for anyone who needed to know, because both him and Cas knew everything otherwise.

There weren't any words for it.

If there ever did come a time where it became necessary to pin down their status, then they'd deal with it. As it were, when considering everything going on outside their motel room, what happened there would have to be left. Part of Dean wanted to bring Cas back to the bunker, his hands finding his bare sides and his face cuddling into that chest as he considered it. But he knew he couldn't. Not with Sam in the situation he was.

Maybe that was the whole thing. He and Cas knew what was between them, what could be, and they simply had to wait until it was appropriate to make something of it. Until then – if that time ever came – they had what they did, broken and disjointed as it was.

But it was something.

A very important something.

"Dean?" Cas's scratchy voice sounded above his head, Dean realizing too late that his grip had been enough to wake the other man. Releasing his hold, he turned his head up to take in the stare looking down at him, dark eyebrows furrowed curiously.

"Sorry," he apologized with a deep breath. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's fine," Cas assured, his body stretching some beneath Dean as he glanced over to the end table. A cheap, digital alarm clock sat there, the time reading six thirty-seven. "I have work at eight anyway."

Nodding, Dean finally got up the energy to move. Rolling to the side, his sticky body seemed to stretch off of Cas, his pants around his knees hindering his movements some. Pursing his lips, he began to kick them off entirely – once he'd landed back down beside Cas. They "fwumped" heavily to the side of the bed, Dean sinking some into the mattress as he cocked a single knee upward.

Watching him the whole time, Cas soon turned on his side, his gaze focused on Dean's profile. It took a second, but Dean eventually returned the look, a smirk pulling at one side of his lips.

"You're beautiful," Cas said quite certainly.

"Hmm, thanks," Dean grinned wider. "I think it's pretty clear what I think of you."

Cas smiled just a little.

"You have work at eight?" A nod of confirmation. "You should probably take a shower," Dean reached out, his hand landing with a soft pat against Cas's hip. "You'll smell like sex all day otherwise." Which was something others would definitely notice.

"I suppose you're right," Cas agreed, making no initial attempts to move. After a few more seconds of staring however, he sighed, giving in. Sitting up, Dean's hand fell away from him as he stared out across the room. His attempts to rise only got about halfway to success, one of his legs coming up to fold before him as he sat stationary on the bed.

Dean admired the view for a moment. That body – which was more Cas's than anyone else's, as far as Dean was concerned – with its well-formed, wiry muscle, naturally tanned skin, dark hair. Sharp features. Yes, Cas was most certainly something worthy of desire.

Sitting up as well, Dean scooted up beside him, their thighs bumping as he placed a hand behind Cas's back, his chin leaning on his shoulder. Turning into him, Cas allowed their eyes to meet again, their noses touching as they stared.

"You know," Cas started, his voice a mere murmur, "the day I raised your from hell, I really was lost."

Dean blinked, knowing his eyes said enough. "I've found, in this world, that it's more often better to be lost than found."

A soft, sad smile below those blue eyes.

Shortly after, Cas was up, the bathroom shower running. Dean had lain back in the bed, cruising through the television channels until Cas came back out. With him toweling his hair dry and gathering their clothes around the room, Dean took over the bathroom. By the time seven-thirty was rolling around, Dean was pulling his jeans back on, Cas yanking on his work vest, which he'd retrieved from the car. With sunlight shining in through the blinds on the windows, they were soon fully presentable, Dean lastly shucking on his coat as Cas rose from where he'd been sitting on the end of the bed. He'd pulled up the sheets and gathered them into a roll, for the sake of the help, which left the room in a state of farewell.

Looking only quickly to one another, Dean sighed before going to he door. Reaching for the knob, he twisted before pulling it open. Cas was just behind him, his arm catching Cas's as the door opened. Turning up, he was caught up yet again in that look, his lips pursing as he took it in.

Leaning forward, he caught Cas by the arm, his fingers holding his sleeve as he pressed their lips together. Cas gave in willingly, the contact lasting only seconds. But it was heavy, and meaningful, and more than what time could define.

Still holding Cas's sleeve, Dean leaned back, blue eyes blinking back at him.

"I guess this is adios," he muttered.

Cas nodded, knowing there was no objecting to the truth of the statement.

With only a last look into each other, Dean nodded to the door, gesturing Cas through first before pulling the door closed behind him. Foregoing checking out – he'd left the key in the room – his eyes turned to the impala. His hand still lingered on the doorknob, Cas's back to him as he headed to the passenger side of the car.

Willing himself to take a deep breath, Dean closed his eyes for a moment, his hand still on the knob.

He considered what was in that room, what they were leaving behind, and nearly tore his chest apart as he finally allowed his hand to fall to his side.

Control.

Going to the car, he climbed in the driver's side before starting the engine and backing out of the parking spot. Soon enough they were on the road, the Gas-N-Sip only some ten minutes away.

* * *

><p><strong>Follow me on tumblr - demondogdean<strong>


	2. Possession

_In which Dean accidentally gives away his feelings to Cas and has to be pursued through the bunker and brought back from his self-hating insecurities. _

_Rated K for general audiences. _

**Possession**

"Because he's in love with you," Sam had said, smirking at his snide joke. That was how it had all started – how Dean had fumbled to make-up for the remark (not having expected it to come from his brother), and had tripped over his words until he'd accidentally said something along the lines of "well, yeah, but…" before awkwardly laughing. It'd all happened so fast, and they'd been on a case, and Cas had been standing there. And he'd said "I know," with such certainty in that deep, gravelly voice. The people they'd been speaking to had laughed, and _they'd_ laughed, and Cas had furrowed his brows. Because he wasn't stupid and could tell when the two brothers were forcing it. The sweat that had beaded on Dean's forehead had probably spelled it out pretty well too.

And now it was out there. It was all out there and Dean didn't know how to take it back. And Cas had said "_I know_."

He didn't like that he had feelings for Cas – was attracted to him. He'd come to terms with it, but this new development brought all the terrible back into his mind's eye. Because it was so heavy, and full, and bloated, and Dean hated himself so much. And felt guilty about it, like it was some terrible, horrible thing that was his fault, even though Cas knew he couldn't do anything about it. And he was ashamed that Cas had figured it out – found out – like it was wrong that Dean's admiration be known to the one it was for.

Like his feelings were disgusting. To everyone.

"Cas," Sam's somewhat panicked voice interjected itself as they filed into the bunker, Dean having first retreated and vanished so as to get away as fast as possible. "You have to do something."

"What am I supposed to do?" he snapped back, looking heatedly at Sam – only being so touchy because the whole ordeal was practically ripping him apart too.

"I don't know man," Sam shook his head. "Either… either go to him or leave for a while."

"Leave?"

"Look, I know you and Dean share a 'profound' connection or whatever, but now it's time to man up and do something about it." Because no one had to be a mind reader to know Dean was in misery. "So you either go get him or you give him space. A _lot_ of space."

Cas had to decide whether to return Dean's feelings or not – that was the gist of what Sam was saying.

The breaking point.

Castiel easily came to understand what he would do however. Dean was his best friend, the person he was devoted to above all others. He'd do anything for him, had done all he could, given up everything. Dean had always been, and forever on would be, the most important.

Wings fluttering, Cas's own nerves on the whole debacle got the better of him, his logic about the human perception of "necessary" getting thrown away as he flashed across the bunker. Right into Dean's room, the man in question turning as soon as he heard the familiar flap from where he was sitting on his bed.

"Get out," he commanded as soon as he saw Cas, his muscular arm gesturing toward the door. His face was set in a cold expression of defensive fragileness, Cas fully aware that it was taking all his control to scowl and snarl as he was.

"Dean, listen-"

"Get out!" He was standing.

"Dean!" Cas's voice got deeper, his own irritation at Dean's stubborn, ridiculous insecurity complex puncturing his own self-control. "_Stop_!"

"I _can't_!" Dean yelled back, helplessness brimming at his words, starting to overflow. "I've tried!"

And Cas ran cold with what he was implying.

"I'm sorry," he admitted, his voice quieting some as his arm fell limp at his side. His gaze fell away as well, his whole demeanor sinking. "I've tried to stop, but I can't. It doesn't work that way."

As if Cas didn't understand.

"I didn't mean to tell you, to become like this," he continued, sounding far too broken – far too defeated – for Dean Winchester. "Otherwise, I would have…"

"You would have what?" Cas asked, tone low. Sincere maybe. "I know there's nothing you can do about it. There's nothing wrong with what you feel Dean. You can't help it."

But it was clear such words were doing little to ease Dean's distress. If anything, he only deteriorated further, his lips actually trembling some as he reached up and ran his hand through his hair.

"I've messed it up, haven't I?" he asked, Cas's eyebrows scrunching together. He wanted to reach out, to do something, but was afraid of how Dean would react. "What we had. I've ruined it." His voice sounded almost choked.

"No," Cas did take a step forward then, but only one. Because Dean took a step back in response, looking up at him uncertainly. "Nothing is ruined. You haven't done anything wrong." He had to find the right words. "And there's nothing wrong _with_ you."

"Cas, you don't-"

"I do understand," he interrupted, silently spurring Dean to keep eye contact with him. "I understand perfectly. It doesn't bother me. You don't have anything to be ashamed of." The desire, the expectation, the feelings, Cas was aware that none of it could be helped.

"Then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me you… you knew? You just let me go?" As if Cas being aware of these feelings was some kind of an enabler, allowing them to run rampant and unchecked.

"You didn't want me to know," Cas shrugged, his head shaking slightly. "And I didn't want you to… to distance yourself from me." Maybe his desire for secrecy, for keeping his knowledge to himself, had been somewhat selfish. "You seemed content with our situation, and I didn't want to push you away." Because he knew how Dean could be about emotions, and how he tended to shy away from them whenever possible.

"Content?" Dean shook his head. "If you really knew how I felt, then you know that's not true." Which, as far as Dean was concerned, was the worst part. How much he really wanted more.

"I know that you wanted to hide it," Cas replied. "That you were too ashamed to tell me. And if that was what was easiest for you, I wasn't going to say anything." Because he feared losing his friendship with Dean above everything – aside from losing Dean himself. It didn't seem like too much to ask, simply that he be allowed to stay with him, with Dean. "Whatever you want, that's fine with me."

"What does that even mean?" Dean replied somewhat heatedly, confusion apparent in every word. "You know what I want, you know what-"

"Then that's what I'll be," Cas assured, Dean's lips clamping closed. "You wanted us to become comrades, so I abandoned Heaven. You wanted us to be friends, so I betrayed the other angels. You wanted us to be family, so I found a new home.

"You want us to be lovers," Dean's cheeks pinked at the word, but Cas pressed on, "then I'll belong to you."

"Cas…"

"I don't know why you were afraid to tell me," he admitted, "because you should have known what I'd say." Dean's lips pursed, his eyes searching Cas's – desperately perhaps. "How I feel about you Dean… I thought I'd made that pretty clear years ago."

"You make it sound so simple," Dean muttered out, his voice straining against the pressure welling up in his throat. Cas could sense his fear, his apprehension at believing what he was actually hearing. Because Dean had lived a life of disappointment, heartache, and abandonment. And when he let his hopes get up too high, he was always shot down.

"It's _not_ simple," Cas took another step forward, thankful this time when Dean didn't back away. "But that doesn't make it wrong." Slowly, he closed the distance between them, only coming to a halt when their noses were mere inches away. Dean was always going on about personal space, but Cas preferred to be close to him. To look at him – to count his freckles and the flecks in his eyes, to watch as his long eyelashes came down to brush his cheeks, and how his lips stretched and moved when he spoke. It was mesmerizing.

"Cas-" Dean wanted to say something more, but his words were sliced off on his tongue, unable to pass through every barricade he'd thrown up his whole life.

"I know," was the quiet assurance Cas gave him. He understood Dean was afraid. That he feared how close they were standing and what that meant. What that said about himself and what it'd say to others. And what a position it would put him in – how vulnerable and exposed, and then to give something a chance that had hurt him so many times before.

"It's okay," Cas nodded, allowing a small smile to echo his soft words. "You don't have to say anything."

Which was probably the most comforting thing anyone could say to Dean in that moment. He didn't have to explain himself, to justify his feelings and spell them out so Cas could be certain they were there. In those blue eyes, all was clear. All was certain. No judgment, no denial, no wayward consequences. Just truth.

Acceptance without a catch.

For a moment, as their noses leaned in and Cas's breath washed over Dean's lips, he wasn't afraid anymore –

He had one thing to say.

"I _need_ you, Cas."

Eyes closed.

"Then I'm yours."

* * *

><p><strong>Follow my tumblr - demondogdean<strong>


	3. Love Notes

_Dean has a secret admirer slipping notes under his door._

_Rated K for general audiences. _

**Love Notes**

Love notes are one of those things that people get on television and in movies, not in real life, so Dean was pretty surprised when they started showing up under his shop door.

Initially he'd assumed it was a mistake. Someone who'd been in to pick up or drop off their car had dropped it and he hadn't noticed it till the morning after. So Dean hadn't opened it, instead deciding to leave it on the counter in case someone came looking for it. Sealed up in a red envelope, it'd sat for days, Dean eventually forgetting about it as it got covered with receipts and work orders.

Until another one showed up.

This had piqued his curiosity, Dean finally deciding to open them only to find personal versus addressed directly to him.

_Mr. Winchester – Sometimes I try to count all your freckles. I never succeed. _

Or so had said the second one. The first had been about his eyes, about how green they were, or some such nonsense. At least, that was what Dean had thought of it at first. He scoffed and remembered something about high school, the whole thing making him rather uncomfortable in an embarrassed kind of way. Mostly because he couldn't imagine who would want to secretly admire someone like him. He was covered in grease and dirt a majority of the time, running a car garage as he did. What was there to see in that?

Plus, there was the whole veteran status, which left him in a state of perpetual after-work drinking, a habit he wasn't too entirely proud of, but didn't know how to kick.

Yet the notes kept coming. Regularly actually. Every Wednesday morning. To the point where Dean actually anticipated it, his stomach tightening in apprehension as he'd consider what those words would have to say and what color they'd be wrapped in. Sometimes it was short and sweet, others were maybe a sentence or two, but they were always pleasant. Always nice things.

Things that made him feel good for a minute or two.

_Mr. Winchester – You should smile more often. _

_ Mr. Winchester – Your dedication to your job is admirable. _

_ Mr. Winchester – Sometimes you forget to brush your hair. I don't mind. _

_ Mr. Winchester – Your walk is aesthetically pleasing._

_ Mr. Winchester – Everything about you is aesthetically pleasing. _

The notes were odd, really, but Dean couldn't help being flattered. The attention put a soft spot in his day, something to look forward to. Something to push away the nightmares and the loneliness for a little while.

_Mr. Winchester – You had a smudge of grease under your eye yesterday. I almost wanted to rub it off myself. _

_ Mr. Winchester – I think about you a lot._

Slowly but surely, Dean found himself wanting to discover the culprit, his mind becoming more and more distracted with it all the time. It was apparently someone he saw regularly, likely a few times a week. Maybe someone at the grocery store. Or the gas station. Or who walked by his shop. He was soon watching everyone, foolishly thinking that if he spotted them, he'd just know. But the faces were less distinctive than he'd anticipated and his search began to only frustrate him.

Yet the notes kept coming.

_Mr. Winchester – I'd ask you out for drinks if I was brave enough, but I don't have that kind of courage anymore. _

_Mr. Winchester – You were angry about something the other day. I wanted to comfort you, but I'm not forward enough._

_ Mr. Winchester – I dreamt about you last night. You seem like the type that could chase the unwanted away. _

More and more personal, Dean eventually beginning to piece together the feelings and pace of the writer. He had the notes tacked up to one of the walls in his apartment, divided up into categories. How personal they were versus physical compliments. Times he was noticed for specific features or actions with a list of what he'd done that day. Work, grocery store, bar. Work, post office, bank, bar. There never seemed to be any strict pattern that led him to anywhere specific.

So he'd sit with his drinks and think, and wonder, and stare at the glass until it was gone and the bartender had replaced it with another.

_Mr. Winchester – I wonder what you think of bees. _

_ Mr. Winchester – Your hands are calloused. Mine are too. _

It was beginning to aggravate him actually. To the point where any feeling of flattery was followed quickly by loathing. Because he wanted to meet this person, whoever they were, but they were keeping their distance. Once he'd even tried to intercept them. After all, it was always on Wednesdays, so he'd gotten up at three in the morning and staked out inside his shop, at the window, thinking that whoever dropped them off would fall right into his trap.

He didn't get a note that Wednesday. And the one the week after wasn't promising.

_Mr. Winchester – I'm not the kind of person that's easily tricked. _

He's ripped up that one in frustration.

And so the notes continued. Weeks they went on, until, finally, something new happened. Rather, the note was a bit different. What made it curious, however, was what had come before it. The evening previous, to be more exact.

Dean had been at his regular stool, nursing his beer, thinking. He was usually one of the last to leave the bar, though a few stragglers were always burrowed away in the corners or mirroring his own disposition. The bartender had been at the far end, wiping some glasses. A typical night.

And then the crash had happened. An accident, just outside. Two trucks had collided head-on, shaking the street and starting everyone nearby. Including Dean, who hadn't meant to jump up so high or reach back for the gun he didn't carry anymore. Like a great flash, he was in the desert again, and was running, and heaving in deep breaths, and the wind was whipping his face, clogging his pores as sweat swept down across his skin.

He'd reached out to steady himself on the bar, eyes closed as he'd tried to push it away. As he'd looked for reality again. The others around had rushed out to see what had happened, but Dean hadn't been able. He stood motionless, cold and shivering and out of control.

Then there'd been the note the following morning.

_Mr. Winchester – It got me too. I thought I was going to die, for just a second. Maybe that's why I don't have any courage left anymore. I'm too busy being scared all the time to find it. Like everywhere I step there's going to be some kind of trap waiting for me and then I'll be gone. I don't sleep because of it, and when I do I wake up thinking about it. Unless I dream of you. When that accident happened, it was you that pulled me out of it. I wanted to go to you, to help, but I didn't think I could. You were somewhere else, and I was somewhere else, and we weren't somewhere else together. But I think of them sometimes, and how they're gone now, how I'm all that's left. Do you feel like that sometimes? Like you're all there is? Sometimes when I look at you, I don't feel quite so alone anymore._

That was how Dean knew his admirer was a vet. Like him. He read the note over and over and over, lost a little in the words. They'd been there, in the bar, probably in plain sight. And if he hadn't been trapped inside dead memories, he might have noticed them. Seen how they'd froze like he had, carried away to places neither of them had wanted to go.

He got a call from his brother a week later. Sam was engaged. Dean was happy for him and Jessica, but also a little sad.

He stayed later at the bar that night. One, because he was drinking a bit more. Two, because he was hoping he'd somehow locate his admirer. There wasn't anyone of any consequence however – not anyone Dean could have imagined writing the notes. And it wasn't like the guy being a vet was much help. They lived in a military town; almost everyone was connected to it somehow.

Including the drunks.

"You don't know who you're dealing with!" one late-nighter was drawling from the back of the bar, Dean sipping his beer and pretending not to notice. "I served this country! I'm a marine! I don't need this bullshit!" He stumbled up to the counter, Dean leaning away with a scowl. "'Nother round."

The bartender shook his head, continually wiping the glass in his hand.

"C'mon man!" the drunk insisted. "Just one more."

"Dude, you've had enough," Dean interjected, trying to pat the stranger good-naturedly on the back. He considered what the odds were that his vet was someone like this, but quickly decided it wasn't possible. "Let it go."

"Fuck you!" the man shoved his arm away, Dean leaning to the side with skeptically raised brows. "This is bullshit!" The drunk had turned his ranting fully on Dean. "I didn't get shot at so I could come home and get treated like shit! Who the hell do you think you are?!"

He poked Dean hard in the chest.

"Watch it man," Dean warned, his hand leaving his beer on the bar as he turned fully to the onslaught. "I don't want to do this."

"You couldn't if you tried!" With bloodshot eyes, the stranger shoved Dean harshly by the shoulders, nearly knocking him off his seat.

Dean growled. "I'm serious," he warned.

"Fuck you, I-"

Dean hadn't even seen him coming. The bartender, that was. He'd come up behind the drunk, grabbing him before he had the chance to finish his first punch in Dean's direction. Twisting his arm with expert skill, his straight, expressionless face had given nothing away as he'd turned him into the bar. Slammed him there, taken both his arms behind his back, and held him shouting under control. Before, muscular arms unable to be fought, he was pushing the drunk toward the door, throwing him bodily from the building with what looked like little effort.

Those who'd been with the rough-houser were jogging out after their "friend," the bartender holding the door open until they'd all left before he turned and walked back in.

Dean was blinking, still quite surprised at the whole thing. He'd have been able to take the drunk, no questions asked, but that wasn't really the point. No, what was striking him was seeing the man who'd been serving him beer after beer the last few years moving in a way he'd never seen before. With smooth grace and skill, and a terrifying level of stealth.

He didn't look at Dean as he went around to the back of the bar again, his white apron a little stained and tied in a bow above his pants. He reached immediately for the glass he'd been polishing previously, almost too intent on it. Too hasty, in fact. He picked it up, Dean realizing for the first time that his hands were shaking.

The glass was shattering against the floor a second later.

Dean flinched only slightly at the sound, unsure how to react as the bartender stared down at the mess with a tightly pale expression.

Never before had Dean ever paid much attention to the guy. He was the quieter type, not saying much of anything, never starting conversation. Only nodding and serving drinks. Doing his job. Going around bussing tables occasionally, but just as much an object of the room as the bar itself and the stool Dean sat on.

He had dark hair, sharp, angled features. Heavy eyes. The build of someone who'd been through shit. Shit like Dean had been.

"You alright?" Dean asked after a second, the bartender still staring down at the broken glass. His hands were laid heavily against his apron, like that was going to stop their trembling.

"I'm fine," he answered after a rather extended pause, his voice surprisingly deep and gravelly. Like stones dragged against a screen. "I don't… handle confrontation well."

"Yeah," Dean nodded slowly. "I don't think any of us do." The "us" was personal, spoken with experience. The bartender merely pursed his lips however, finally bending down and beginning to pick up the glass. "You really had him though," Dean tried to offer a slight comfort. "I didn't even see you coming."

Another pause, those shaking hands stilling in their cleanup. "It was my job not to be seen," he said, turning up to look at Dean finally. Blue eyes. Bluer than Dean had ever seen any eyes. But sad too. Drawn; tired.

Dean didn't know what to say to that, only able to stare back through the silence. Wondering the whole time how he'd been coming to the same bar nearly every night, yet he felt like this was the first time he'd ever really seen the man who worked there. Vigorously even. With the same dedication that Dean rose to his own shop every morning.

Like it was the only thing he had.

"The bar is closing," he said a moment later, looking back down at the glass. "You don't normally stay this long."

"Yeah, well," Dean sighed, glancing to the side, "I was looking for someone, but…" He wasn't going to explain. Not that he needed to. The bartender didn't ask, which Dean was thankful for. Still, he added one last thing as he rose from his seat and pulled on his coat. "Kinda ironic that a guy who starts shaking at the sight of a fight works in a bar. And handles glass."

No response.

That night had been a Tuesday, so when Dean had gone in for work the morning after, he'd felt his usual anxiety at what would be waiting for him. He wasn't disappointed. As expected, there was a small envelope slid under the door, in plain sight on the dirty floor.

Picking it up, he tore it open, biting his bottom lip as he read.

_Mr. Winchester – Holding things makes it all stop. It gives me something to do with my hands when they start reaching for the trigger. Also, I think I might be in love with you._

Dean wondered how he hadn't figured it out sooner.

He writes his own note that morning, stuffing it into a boring, white envelope that he uses to send out bills. He waits until it gets close to noon before closing down early. He goes to the bar and slips the envelope under the door.

Lingering around the corner, the few minutes he's standing there are some of the longest in his life. But he knows when the bar opens, and hears the door as it's unlocked. Coming around just after it creaks, he spots a figure crouched down in the doorway, unsteady hands fumbling with the envelope.

Dean reads it with him, going over the words he'd written in his head.

_It takes more courage to choose 'not to' than 'to' sometimes. You just have to know the difference. _

He knocks on the doorframe a second later.

His bartender doesn't appear surprised. Standing slowly, he turns to face Dean, his own note clutched in his hand. It's not shaking.

"Hi," Dean says rather lamely. Breathlessly maybe.

"Hello," that deep voice manages to get out, blue eyes more focused on the floor than anything else. Dean thinks he sees a slight redness to those tanned cheeks.

"I guess I should have realized it was you."

"I'm pretty good at going unnoticed."

"Yeah, I get that," Dean grins some, aware of how his heart beats quick in his chest. "I don't think you've ever told me your name."

"You've never asked."

"I'm asking now."

Finally those blue eyes twitch up to look at him.

"Castiel," he says slowly. "Castiel Novak."

"I'm Dean," he replies despite how the other man likely knows as much. "You can stop calling me Mr. Winchester."

No response.

"You wanted to ask me out for drinks once, right?" Dean asks a second later. "No offense, but I think we've had enough drinks together." He thinks maybe there's a small smile on those lips. "So… how about coffee instead?"

Yeah, that's a smile.

"I'd like that... Dean," Castiel nods, his one hand tightening on the note. The other is at his side, trembling slightly.

Reaching out, Dean takes hold of it, stepping a little closer as he steadies the constant tremor.

He smiles fully. "Me too, Cas."

* * *

><p><strong>Follow me on tumblr - DemonDogDean<strong>


	4. Be Direct

_Dean tries to get Cas laid in a seedy bar and things end on a different note._

_Rated T for language and adult themes._

**Be Direct**

"No, don't _stare_," Dean was lecturing in frustration, hand pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed. Cas, head snapping forward, twitched his eyes back and forth, wondering silently how one went about not staring. Was he not always, technically, staring?

Beside the two, first beer still in hand, Sam was laughing, head shaking as he leaned his elbows up against the bar. He was quite settled to simply watch and see how this whole scheme of Dean's went.

"How am I to qualify my interest if I don't evaluate my options?" Cas asked, just as frustrated as Dean with the situation.

"By not staring at every woman in the bar for five minutes straight!" Dean hissed.

"That is an exaggeration."

"Christ Cas, how'd you ever get laid in the first place?" Huffing, Dean had leaned heavily against the bar, his beer mug sitting half full beside him as he looked Cas critically up and down. Now, granted, guy wasn't the youngest looking, and the coat was a bit frumpy, but still, Dean was certain he shouldn't have any problems. Just so long as he quit with the long, critical _stares_ at everyone.

"It wasn't that difficult," Cas replied, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he cocked his head to the side. "She came on to me actually, so there was very little work involved. Until the intercourse."

Sam snorted, beer sputtering from between his lips.

"Right…" Dean deadpanned, taking a deep breath to prepare himself. "Well, first thing's first, you can't stare like that, alright? It's creepy." Dean knew plenty from experience. Granted, Cas's intense eye contact had long since lost its creep factor with him, but that was a special case. Him and Cas were practically best friends. They could just read each other like that, through their eyes. Nothing weird about it.

"How am I to evaluate my options then?" Cas turned to look at Dean, a small frown creasing his curious expression.

"You skim," Dean explained, allowing his own gaze scan the room as he did. Shadows, pool, cigarette smoke hovering above their heads – typical seedy place they frequented. It was happy hour however, so there was a generous number of patrons around, as well as quite a few ladies looking for attention.

He returned his look to Cas. "Only time you stare is if someone catches your eye, and even then, you don't stare like… like you do."

"Like I do?"

"Yeah, you know, all long and intense and… you," Dean shook his head before turning his glare on Sam, who was chuckling on Cas's other side. "You have any better ideas?" The question was snide – irritated.

"I don't know why we're doing this in the first place," Sam countered, leaning back some on his stool with his eyebrow raised in a critical fashion at his brother.

"Because one of us should be getting laid!" Dean reasoned quietly. "I can't 'cuz, well, you know," he didn't trust himself with the mark. Had to stay away from bad vices. "And we all know how the women you have sex with end up." Sam glared. "'Sides, Cas has only had one go around," he grinned at the angel suggestively. "That's hardly acceptable."

"Maybe Cas doesn't want to get laid," Sam fought back, looking to the angel questioningly. Quite as though he expected Cas to agree with him.

"I don't have a strong opinion on the subject," Cas admitted. "While it was pleasurable, now that I'm no longer human, the urge to participate has waned considerably." He took a sip of his beer, seeming to frown at it afterward. Molecules. "However, I realize you value the sentiment," he was still looking at Dean (like always, but Sam kept that thought to himself), "and I'm willing to participate if you think I'll get something out of it."

"Get something out of it?" Dean asked critically. "Damn Cas, it's sex and women! 'Course you'll get something out of it." What a ridiculous thing to say.

"Sex isn't everything to everyone," Sam and his logic again. "Plenty of people don't want or need it, especially from strangers. And what do you know about Cas's preferences anyway?" They'd never asked him after all.

Dean squinted at the angel almost suspiciously, actually considering what his little brother had said. "Are you gay?"

"Excuse me?" Cas's brows furrowed together.

"I mean, it's cool if you swing that way," Dean continued almost guardedly, Sam rolling his eyes. "No judgment, man."

"'No judgment…'" Sam muttered – quoted – quite knowingly, but Dean chose to ignore him.

"I'm an angel, Dean," Cas finally replied, sounding rather short. "I am neither male nor female, nor do I have any opinion on sexual preference." A fact both the brothers should very well know by that point.

"You like chicks though, right?" Dean was suspicious again.

"Humans are humans," he shrugged, finally looking away. "It matters little to me."

"Right…" Dean didn't exactly know what to do with that. "Well, we'll just stick to women. It's what I know best." He cleared his throat, ignoring the sideways look Sam threw at him. "Anyway, getting back on track. So," both him and Cas had turned fully in their stools so they were facing each other, "what are you _not_ going to do?"

"Stare," Cas nodded, totally beyond serious.

"Right," Dean appeared similar, Sam unable to hold back smiling into his beer. "So you've stayed on point and there's a woman talking to you. What are you going to say?"

Cas blinked.

"Right…" Dean sighed. "It's called flirting. You need to flirt, Cas. Do you know how to do that?"

"Of course he knows how to do that," Sam interjected, unable to hold his silence. He tried to keep his lips from tugging into a knowing grin, but it was so difficult. Instead, he overcompensated, sounding more irritated than he was, which ruffled Dean's feathers. "We've seen him doing over and over and over again."

"We have?" Dean narrowed his eyes, Cas appearing thoughtful.

"Well, _I_ have. You're just too dimwitted to notice."

"Screw you, Sammy!"

"I don't recall ever knowingly partaking in such a thing," Cas observed, not at all perturbed by the hostility sparking between the brothers.

"Look, you just need to practice," Sam gestured to the angel and then to Dean with his beer. "Pretend Dean is a woman and you want him to go back to the motel with you. What are you gonna say?"

"Why do I have to be the woman?" Dean hissed defensively. "You're the one with the flowing mane there, Goldilocks." Sam ignored him, silently encouraging Cas, whose eyes were flicking between them. Finally settling on Dean, who'd huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, he squinted in consideration, staring.

And staring. Until so many seconds had passed that Dean felt rather forced to roll his eyes.

"Okay, here we go," he muttered to himself, green eyes looking quickly to the ceiling before dropping back down to Cas. "So, what brings such a good-looking guy like you to a place like this?" He smiled bitterly, Cas's eyebrows furrowing at his question.

"Dean, I came with- _Oh_!" Cas did that small little smile that appeared whenever he was pleased. "We're pretending." Nodding silently, Dean continued to wait, secretly amused at the way Cas gathered his expression and cleared his throat. "I… came with my friends," he looked around stupidly, Dean unable to hold back smiling at how much deeper Cas's already ridiculously deep voice got in his attempts to act.

"Oh yeah?" Dean batted his eyelashes, Sam chuckling into his fist. "I saw them over there. That tall one's kind of ugly," Sam glared, "but the other one is adorable. Maybe you could introduce us."

"Uh…" Cas faltered for a moment, Dean continuing to bat his lashes as he leaned his chin in his hand. "You don't… want to talk to him. He… doesn't like women."

Sam's laughter barked across the bar.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked through his teeth.

"Uh… yes…?"

"Remember Dean, we're helping Cas," Sam muttered, far too amused for his own good. Growling some, Dean took a deep breath in order to push back his irritation and focused back in on Cas.

"Well, that's too bad," the words were bitter. "You're cute though," he winked. "Do you three come in here often?"

"Uh, no, we're just passing through," Cas stumbled out.

"Oh, well that's too bad," Dean tapped his finger against his cheek. "You're here for the night though, right?"

"Y-yes."

"_Perfect_," Dean's smile became predatory.

"It is?"

"Christ, Cas, really?" Dean's entire posture dropped, as did his expression. "I'm practically inviting you to sleep with me and you're being a total idiot about it." Cas was visibly hurt by his words, shoulders slumping inside his baggy coat. Which made Dean feel bad. "Look, I'm sorry, but… this isn't going to work if you can't read the signs."

"I'm trying, Dean…"

"Maybe he just needs to be more direct," Sam interjected, attempting to be positive. "Not everyone flirts, you know," he tried to comfort the angel. "And a guy who knows what he wants isn't always a bad thing."

"Yeah, maybe Sam's right," Dean agreed, if only to make Cas feel better. "Most of the people here," he shrugged out at the crowd, "they're lookin' to score anyway. Just… be honest about what you're looking for. Pick someone out and give it a go!"

"Anyone?" Cas's eyebrows had furrowed.

"Anyone," Dean nodded, quite certain that it didn't matter who Cas singled out. He was going to crash and burn anyway. "You just go right on up and get what you want."

"What I want?"

"Exactly." Dean smiled as encouragingly as he could, clapping Cas on the shoulder. "Go get 'em tiger!"

But Cas didn't get up. Rather, he looked at Dean for a few seconds longer before flicking his attention out to the rest of the crowded bar. His focus jumped from group to group, woman to woman, man to man, but none of them stood out to him. It wasn't until Dean's hand began to slide from his shoulder, the warmth it'd possessed leaving him, that he realized what he wanted. He didn't like it, the new chill upon his shoulder. The mark left against his jacket that weighed heavily on his human skin.

Cas didn't desire much, not in the sexual way. But there was one being – one in billions – that he knew he wanted. In _every_ way. The only one that, upon looking back to his green eyes, he knew he'd readily spend the night with. Every night for however long they possibly could.

Sam had said be direct.

"Cas, wha-"

Dean had told him to go for what he wanted.

"Oh shit."

Sam's swearing was ignored, Cas's whole vessel seeming to jolt with adrenaline as he took his chance. As he leaned forward and, cutting off any questions, pressed his lips to Dean's. He closed his eyes – tightly, because he knew he shouldn't be doing what he was. For all of Dean's attachment, and dependence, and pining, he'd never shown such physical interest in Cas. Never directly, not like this. And Cas knew what he was doing would change everything between them, be that for good or bad. The moment had been so perfect, and Dean was so beautiful – body, soul, everything. Even with the Mark.

It was reckless, and it was stupid, but Dean was the only one Cas wanted.

The only one.

It was in that moment, as Cas fervently pulled at Dean's unresponsive lips with his own, that he felt silence for the first time in years. Yes, felt it. It didn't matter what they were doing, or how far apart they were, or even in what dimensions, it'd become a constant thrumming in the back of Cas's head. That was, Dean's pure and unadulterated longing. Longing for Cas.

But it'd gone quiet, Cas's fear that he'd done the wrong thing – that he'd destroyed it all – dropping down on him with the severity of a thousand pound weight. He'd done this, the kiss, and now Dean didn't want him anymore.

Snapping back, Cas pulled them apart abruptly, thoughts racing as he tried to find a way to quickly fix this. To take it back, or erase it entirely. Because Dean was staring at him with the widest green eyes he'd ever seen, lips tight inside his gaunt cheeks. Shocked. Disgusted maybe. Cas didn't know, couldn't tell anymore, was beginning to panic.

Him, an angel, panic. Over a human man.

What had he done?

But then…

Then it hit him.

Like a canon blast pounding inside his head. Or a gust of wind that threw all the doors and windows open with a single blast.

_Longing_.

Dean's longing – pushing at him with a force Cas had never registered before. So powerfully that it nearly put him off balance on his stool. Like a drain abruptly unplugged, Dean was bombarding him, the jolt of it all so profound that Cas initially didn't know what to do. He'd never received such a powerful prayer before. Because though it wasn't words, that was what it was. Dean _begging_ for him.

_Wanting_ him.

Cas gulped, trying to find something to say. Anything. Because Dean was still staring at him, and _pleading_, and Sam was beside them gaping. Even some of the onlookers in the bar were watching.

And then flirting popped into Cas's head. Because "_this isn't going to work if you can't read the signs_."

He cleared his throat. "Did I sufficiently 'get him tiger?'" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Dean gulped. And blinked. And blushed red against his freckles, failing to say anything. His lips parted, moving up and down silently, yet no noise came forth.

But perhaps he hadn't been direct enough, or so Cas was reasoning. He had to make it clear what he wanted.

"Dean," he leaned forward slightly, "would you like to have intercourse with me?" He said it quietly enough that only those closest could hear, Sam gaping further as Dean's flustered appearance deepened another shade.

But Cas could be patient. He could feel Dean's answer – it was practically stabbing into his consciousness – but humans required formality. Even if all Cas wanted to do was pick Dean up off that stool and whisk him from the room.

"Dean?" Cas said again when no answer was given.

Finally, Dean seemed to snap out of it. Lips pursing closed, he looked from Cas to Sam and back again, his brain slowly catching up with what had happened. Had Cas really just kissed him? And then asked him for sex? Was he dreaming? He'd had this dream before, so he figured it was pretty likely. Yet no matter how many times he blinked, he was still there with Cas's expectantly waiting eyes.

Well, he was supposed to be staying away from bad things – things like sex, especially with another dude. But Cas was an angel, so that had to have some kind of counteractive idea to it. Sleeping with him couldn't possibly be a sin.

Oh shit, he was actually considering this.

Well of course he was considering it. He wanted it. He wanted Cas.

Oh shit, he was going to have sex with Cas…

He was going to have sex with _Cas_!

"Sam," his voice was louder than expected, his younger brother visibly jumping. "Pay for our drinks." Reaching out, he grabbed Cas by the arm as he stood, pulling the angel off his stool. Followed willingly, Dean tossed one last look at Sam over his shoulder. "Don't come back to the room for a few hours."

Dragging Cas behind him, he pushed his way through the bar and out the door, Sam biting his mouth closed as he watched.

As he slumped back against the bar and took a long drink.

"Well, I guess a direct approach really does work."

* * *

><p>Follow me on tumblr - DemonDogDean<p> 


	5. Speak and I'll Listen

_Cas and Dean have been neighbors since they were six years old, the fact that Cas is deaf meaning little to Dean until an accident makes it all too clear. Valentine's Day special._

_Rated K for general audiences._

**Speak and I'll Listen**

Dean had lived across from Castiel since he was six years old. He still remembered when the Novak's had moved in, and how excited he'd been when a little black-haired boy with a bee stuffed animal had tottered into the house after his mother. Because they'd been the same age, and as far as Dean's six-year-old brain had figured, that meant he got to make a new friend. Dean had always been happy to make friends.

He'd begged his mother for days – from the arms of their couches and edges of countertops – to go and meet them. With Sam on her hip, she'd said, "no, not now," leaving Dean to wander up to his room dejected and staring out his window at the blue house across the lonely road.

Until the weekend had finally arrived, at which point Mary had packed together a welcome basket, spurred John out of the garage, and held Sam's hand as they headed from one side across to the next. Dean had been jumping with excited nerves, smiling with his new football held in his tiny hands.

Up the stone walkway to the porch and front door of the house, Mary had knocked, the group waiting with varying degrees of anticipation.

A thin, mousy, blonde haired woman had answered, looking them up and down in silent surprise that Dean had failed to notice. He'd been too busy trying to peek past her legs into the house, looking for the little boy he'd thought he'd invite to play out in the yard.

"Um, hello," the strange woman had greeted. Mary had said some nice words, introduced them, and soon enough they'd been in the house. Gathered in the kitchen, Dean had looked between the adult's legs with a vigorous kind of searching, hands flexing around the football. Until, finally being noticed by Mary, an explanation had been given.

"Dean saw your son, I think," she'd said to the strange woman, a questioning smile on her bright face, as if to make sure she'd been assuming correctly. "He's been bugging me all week to come over and talk to you so they could play."

"Oh…" Dean had turned hopefully up to them, not perceptive enough to see that the blonde – her name was Amelia – had been fidgeting in unease, her voice hardly above a murmur. "Well…" She'd looked Dean up and down – at his ruffled blonde hair and dirt-smudged face. He'd been teaching Sam how to catch earlier, to little success. "I suppose that… that might be alright."

Both Mary and John had been perplexed by her hesitance, but said nothing on it as she'd walked from the kitchen. Figuring that perhaps she was simply overprotective, they'd instead focused on stopping Sam from wandering under the bar chairs, getting him rounded up just in time for Amelia to return to the room.

She'd been bent over someone, hands on the small shoulders of the little boy walking ahead of her. He'd been gripping his bee stuffed animal, a look of nervousness painted across his delicate features as he'd looked the newcomers up and down. His black hair had been nicely brushed, no filthy spots on his clothes.

None of this had deterred Dean however, who'd bounded forward with a smile, successfully startling the other boy, whose blue eyes had widened in surprise.

"Hi, I'm Dean," he'd said, grinning as he'd reached up and wiped at his nose. "I live across the street. I brought this football if you want to play," he'd gripped it tight. "I was trying to teach my brother how to play, but he's not old enough and…" Dean had then wavered, finally noticing the way the other boy had shied away from him. Smile dropping, he'd blinked, not understanding what he'd done wrong.

And then the little boy had turned into his mother, his bee dropping to the floor as he'd tugged at her sleeve. There'd been little, squeaking moans coming from between his lips – like the sounds Sam had sometimes made when he'd been unhappy, but that Dean had long since stopped uttering. He'd been clearly distressed, Dean gaping.

"It's okay," Amelia had said as she'd crouched down, attempting to comfort him. Dean hadn't understood what she'd been doing however. Her fingers had flurried in strange ways, her son reaching out to grip at them as he'd continued to whine. No words though, just sound.

All Dean had registered was that something had been wrong.

Behind him, Mary had taken a quick breath in, drawing Dean's attention as she'd come up and stooped down beside him. She'd laid her hand on his back, smiling comfortingly as Dean had turned to her.

"What'd I do?"

"Nothing honey," she'd assured. "He's just a little nervous is all."

"But why?"

"Well, because, Dean," she'd looked only quickly to Amelia, who'd been staring back anxiously before then focusing back on her son. "He can't hear you." Dean had blinked, clearly not understanding. The other little boy had still been whining, tears trailing down his cheeks as his mother continued to try and calm him with her strange hand motions. "He's deaf."

"Deaf?" Dean had blurted gracelessly. "What's that?"

"His ears don't work," Mary had tried to make it as simple as possible, able to easily sense the nerves of the other mother, who'd looked nearly as uncomfortable as her son. "He can't hear what you're saying."

"Oh…" Dean had looked back to the other little boy, who'd then been plain-old crying. Dean could get that though. Crying. He cried all the time. Not as much as Sammy, but his little brother had still been like a baby. "I didn't know…"

"It's okay," Mary had assured, still with that soft smile. Perhaps, had Dean been less extroverted, been less interested in others, been less compassionate, his dealings with the other little boy might have ended there – due to mutual discomfort. Dean simply hadn't been that kind of little boy however. Instead, he'd set his football down and slowly – like when he'd tried to catch the stray cats that came into the yard – walked a little closer.

The other little boy had turned to watch him, gripping tighter at his mother's sleeve. He'd still been sniffling, and whining a little, but Dean hadn't let it deter him. Instead, reaching down, he'd picked up the bee before taking another step forward. Holding it out, he'd offered it back, smiling a little as he had.

At first, he thought the other little boy hadn't been going to take it, and his heart had fallen. But then Amelia had motioned something else to him. Something that made those tiny squeaks come to a stop.

Tentatively, with one hand still holding tight to his mother's sleeve, a little hand had reached out to retrieve the bee. He'd taken it slowly, gently, from Dean before hugging it to his chest. As if feeling a little more secure, he'd finally let go of his mother, both hands hugging the bee as he'd looked Dean up and down.

As Dean had grinned.

"What's his name?" Dean then asked, looking directly to Amelia, whose relief went unnoticed by him.

"His name is Castiel," she'd replied with a small, reassured smile. "Castiel," she'd tapped her son on the shoulder, who'd looked up sharply. "This is Dean," she'd been motioning again, Dean watching with a gaping mouth. "D-e-a-n," she'd made the same motions over again, slower, those little hands around the bee mimicking her unconsciously before Castiel's eyes had flicked back.

A small little squeak then left Castiel's throat, one that reminded Dean of Sam when he'd been a littler baby. When he'd wanted Dean to pick him up and pull him across the floor, hands outstretched.

Brave as ever, Dean had held out his own hand. Like Sam had used to. Lots of words had jumped to his tongue, but Castiel wouldn't have heard him, he knew, so he'd done whatever else he could. He'd waited, those big blue eyes flicking between his face and his fingers.

Until, rather shyly, Castiel had let down his bee, one hand still around its wing while the other had hesitantly grabbed Dean's own. Squeezing back, Dean had then taken another step closer to him, smiling a little wider.

He hadn't noticed how the back of Amelia's hand had gone to her trembling lips, or how Mary had watched with the proudest eyes any mother could have had.

Instead, Castiel's hand now firm inside his own, Dean had pulled them right up close together, side by side, before pointing to the door.

"Do you want to play outside?" he'd asked despite knowing he couldn't be heard. The mother had spoken to Castiel after all, and he'd quickly noticed how the other boy watched his lips. Because Dean was an intuitive problem solver, and had quickly picked Castiel apart. "Out-side," he'd said again, those blue eyes blinking at him. "Pl-ay."

Castiel had then made some motion with his hand that Dean didn't understand, but then pointed to the door too, bee still in-hand.

"Yeah!" Dean had said excitedly, gently beginning to tug Castiel across the kitchen. "C'mon!" Stumbling across the floor, they'd headed out into the sunlight.

Within hours, they were inseparable.

It took a few days for Dean to grow accustomed to Cas – mostly because of his tendency to exclaim at random times, either in shock, or excitement, or even simply because Dean wasn't doing something to his taste. He never actually spoke, which Dean managed to puzzle out on his own. Obviously, since he couldn't hear anyone else speaking, he didn't know how.

This didn't, however, mean they couldn't communicate. Rather, Dean just found different ways to talk to him. Be it by pulling him along, or simply by looking at him. Gestures even, which, though they weren't the same ones Cas used with his mother, meant something between the two boys. They had their own language, one no one else understood. It wasn't complicated, or artful, but it was enough. Because most of the time they didn't need such things at all. Dean knew when Cas was upset just by the look in his eyes, and Cas started to read him too.

But sometimes, like when Dean had taught Cas how to throw the football, or when Cas'd had to explain to Dean how to properly color in the lines, they simply took one another's hands and worked through it. Dean laid his arm up with Cas's until he was throwing the ball the way John had taught him, and Cas had cupped his hand over Dean's to guide him along the black edges of the paper.

They spent hours, weeks, together. Sometimes with Sam, mostly not. They rushed down the grassy hill behind Cas's house to the pond with the tadpoles, where they fished around and stuck them in buckets. They galloped barefoot around in Mary's garden after it rained, lifting rocks and stumps and picking out the toads before letting them loose in the entranceway when Dean heard them called in for lunch. They chased cats through the fields nearby and went swimming in the creek beside the wood. Until Dean completely forgot that maybe Cas was different.

When they started going to school, and Dean ran over to get Cas to catch the bus, they were both saddened to learn they went to different schools. That Dean went to the one in town whereas Cas was driven further off by Amelia. As soon as he got home however, Dean waited on the stump outside Cas's house, dirty legs swinging until their old Lincoln came pulling into the drive. And on the nights when Dean had homework and couldn't meet him right away, Cas went running to Mary or Amelia, his hands flurrying down his cheeks in question. Because that was his sign for "Dean." It meant "freckles," or so Amelia had explained.

When snow fell, and the days grew shorter, they were more than likely at one house or the other, running rampant before being sent to bed. Dean's clothes were in Cas's laundry and Cas's in Dean's until they didn't have to bring anything with them to sleep over. Sometimes, when John stayed late at the shop, Mary let Dean turn up the speakers connected to the old record player. Cas would lie up against them, feeling the way the music thrummed through his whole body with a small smile pulling at his lips. And when he stayed up at Cas's, they built tents with brooms and blankets, sneaking through them with flashlights and giggles before collapsing in exhaustion. Sometimes they got out Cas's picture books before they went to bed, Dean reading out loud with his fingers trailing under the words so Cas could watch the way his lips moved.

During the summer when they were both eight, the farmer next door sold his property. Watching from the tree house John had built, Dean, Cas, and Sam saw as the houses began to creep closer – big, giant things that all looked the same and didn't have any trees in their yards. Until Dean heard Amelia talking to Mary about a sign, one that she thought needed to be put up about a "Deaf Child Area" because the road was getting busier.

When it was finally put up that autumn, Dean had watched as Cas huffed angrily and kicked and punched at the metal pole, howling out in frustration. Dean had held his hand until he'd calmed down, pulling him down to the pond where they'd tossed rocks –

Cas's harder than usual – before collapsing into the dirt, side by side, Cas's head on Dean's shoulder.

The year they turned ten, Dean really started to realize how much his parents fought. And that his father didn't stay away so much because he was working late. He'd cried a lot that summer, and Cas had held his hand too. And pulled him close when John had moved out. Cheek to cheek, they'd curled up in the tree house, Sammy on Dean's other side as John took off down the road in his old pickup truck.

Cas's dad wasn't around either, Dean finally getting the gumption to wonder about it. And when Amelia brought tea over to Mary, he learned that Jimmy Novak hadn't been able to handle the pressure. That Cas had been too much for him. Dean hadn't understood, personally, because Cas had always seemed like just enough to him.

It was the spring they turned eleven that things changed.

After school, football in hand, Dean sprinted his way over to Cas's upon seeing their old Lincoln pull up. Waving as Cas hauled his books from the car, he got a smile as said books were set on the porch. Cas flurried his fingers around his cheeks as he always did upon them meeting, Dean holding up the ball in invitation. Cas knew he was trying out for peewee football – he'd shown him the flyer the day before – and so nodded in agreement to helping Dean practice.

Before that, however, Cas paused. He reached out and grabbed Dean's sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. Turning to him, Dean cocked his head to the side curiously, a deliberately questioning look on his face. Because Cas looked nervous, and was staring at the ground.

Gripping Dean's sleeve a little tighter, he bit the inside of his cheek before finally looking up again.

He opened his mouth, pausing for only second before he spoke.

One word.

"Dean."

He said it slowly, like his tongue was slow over each sound, but there was no mistaking it. Eyes wide, Dean gaped, unsure what to think until it was said again. And then one more time.

Smiling, chest constricting in a way he didn't understood, Dean dropped his football before catching Cas up in his spindly arms. Cheek to cheek, he held him, that which he felt in that moment something he didn't realize he didn't understand. But it didn't matter, as Cas had embraced him back, nose burrowed against his neck. And smelling like honey and cinnamon, and all things Dean' had learned were good.

That was how Cas greeted Dean from then on. Until the name rolled from his tongue with expert skill, sounding just as it should, yet somehow better because Cas had been the one saying it.

They spent that spring throwing the football more than anything else, Dean having earned the position of quarterback and wanting, more than anything, to be the best. The sun was setting, sending a warm, orange glow through the whole sky. The beauty of the sunset, however, wasn't enough to improve Dean's mood any. He was irritated, Cas watching him with a critical eye as he expertly caught every catch Dean chucked at him.

Because that was just it. With all his practice with Cas, Dean really had become one of the best players on the team. The issue, however, was with the fact that none of the others could keep up with him. The receivers didn't run fast enough to catch where he wanted to throw the ball, and he was continually holding himself back.

But there was one who could. Cas. Cas had always kept up with him. Probably because he'd been Dean's receiver longer than any of the kids on his team had even been playing. He wanted Cas to join the team; and since it wasn't school affiliated, Dean knew he could. Together, they'd be unstoppable. But when he'd brought it up to Amelia, she'd refused. Even when Cas had asked, holding up the peewee flier, she'd been dead-set against it. Too dangerous for Cas, she'd reasoned. And no amount of persuasion from Dean had cracked her.

Which was why they were stuck out in the front yard, practicing like always.

Cas's sympathetic looks weren't enough however, not this time, and, growling, Dean put all his force into his throw. All his strength. Intent, Cas watched it, turning to sprint back when it was clear it'd go right over his head.

Over the edge of the yard too, and out into the road.

Dean had a hard time, looking back, remembering whether it had happened slowly or more quickly. He'd known a car was coming up the hill – he'd heard it rumbling – but hadn't realized fast enough for Cas. Probably because he'd been telling himself for years that Cas really wasn't so different, that there wasn't anything wrong with him.

Yet it was in that moment, slow or fast as it'd been, that Cas's disability had been clear as day to him. Because Cas was watching the ball, arms outstretched, and wasn't looking around like he'd been taught.

Dean tried to warn him, but no amount of screaming his name was going to make him stop. Cas didn't hear him. Couldn't.

Nor did he hear the screeching of tires, or his mother's shrieking as she rushed out the door. The only thing he registered was the leather of the ball in his hands and then the pounding of his body as he was tossed to the side.

Like a bloody ragdoll. Dean watched it all, too shocked to do more than reach out to him.

Everything after was a haze. He remembered the car rushing off – a hit and run. And there'd been a flashing of red and blue lights. Mary had been there, cradling his tear-streaked face against her chest as they'd loaded the gurney into the ambulance with the tiny body strapped into it. As they'd driven off, sirens blaring with Amelia in the old Lincoln following after.

In the days after, Mary had asked Dean many times if he wanted to go to the hospital. To see Castiel. But he'd refused every time. Instead, he'd stayed up in his room, sometimes crying and sometimes buried in his blankets with the lights turned out. Until finally his mother quit asking him.

Cas was in the hospital for a long time, he knew that. What, exactly, had been broken about him, he'd never asked. Probably because he never went to visit him. Not once. And Mary didn't push him, seeming more distressed with his depression than why he wasn't going to visit the source of it. When Cas finally came home, Mary tried repeatedly to get him to go over and see him, but Dean always said no. Amelia came over too, asking about him, but he never came out of his room when she had. Rather, he came up with excuses not to go over there. Excuses that stretched from weeks to months, Dean unable to even face Cas when he'd come over directly.

Until, finally, upon seeing each other across the road, Dean had put his trash in the garbage can while pretending Cas hadn't been doing the same. And that was when it'd ended.

Years passed. Dean distracted himself with school, and new friends, and fixing up the Impala his father had left behind. The houses encroached on their area until the road had been turned into a neighborhood, and that Cas and Dean didn't acknowledge each other became no stranger than the fact that not all the neighbors knew one another. They saw each other occasionally, but Dean wasn't home much and Cas had long since been moved into another special school. Not one for the deaf, but one for the intellectually gifted. One that only had him home on the weekends.

As it were, it was Dean's sixteenth birthday. Cold, even for January, but he was out putting the trash in the can just like always, despite the fact that he'd argued with his mother about Sam doing it. Seeing as it _was_ his special day.

Clapping the lid back into place, he'd shoved the trash down, about ready to head back inside when nearby laughter drew his attention. Were it not for the fact that it was late on a Friday night, he might not have cared. But his reputation at school, as well as his popularity, made him a prime target for shenanigans such as teepee-ing and other irritants. Eyes narrowing into a glare, he walked beyond the privacy fence, looking down the street for the culprits.

When he spotted them, however, it wasn't his house they were aiming for. Rather, they were clustered together across the street, in front of the bushes Amelia had planted a few years prior. When the neighborhood had exploded – similarly to how Mary had put up her fence.

Ears tuned, Dean listened.

"No, look, write this," one of them was saying, laughing afterward.

"Ha, Freak, yeah," said another, Dean's hair bristling on the back of his neck.

"I put Retard on this one."

"Oh, that's a good one."

Part of Dean wanted to scatter them, to barrel over and send them running. Yet his feet remained planted, his own fear, and guilt, keeping him still. Until one of the bigger of the group took the brick with the paper taped to it and pulled his arm back. He chucked it over the bush, the crashing of glass starting Dean out of his stupor.

"Hey!" he yelled, the group turning back to him as he stomped across the street in pursuit.

He heard one of them swear as they dispersed, Dean reaching their position just as they'd all dashed off into the darkness. They'd dropped their ammo, their brick pieces with their foul words littering the sidewalk. Bending down, angry and disgusted, Dean picked up one of them, his stomach roiling at the "stupid" scrawled across the paper taped to it.

He didn't know someone was watching him until another brick clunked to the ground in front of him.

Eyes flicking up quickly, he gaped at the boy who stood there. Blue eyes, dark hair, and upset, pursed lips.

Castiel.

Blinking, Dean didn't know what to say initially. Not until he realized that Cas's look was directed at him. Looking around rather foolishly, it occurred to him how bad this looked. That a brick had just gone shooting through the Novak's front window and now Dean, who'd all out refused to even talk to Cas for the last four years, was standing in the middle of all the evidence.

"Cas," he said as he stood, hand reaching out. "I didn't- It wasn't-"

It didn't matter what he said however. Because Cas couldn't hear him.

Instead, Dean was forced to watch as those blue eyes narrowed to accusing slits, hurt and betrayal painted across every bit of Cas's expression. Because after Dean had acted following the accident, how he'd totally and completely abandoned Cas, it wasn't too farfetched to think him capable of something as horrific as this. Not when Cas had already been so terribly hurt by him once before.

A thousand explanations flitted through Dean's head, but none of them meant anything. Feeling around in his coat, he searched for a pen and paper, anything, but there was none. And then, lips trembling, eyes blinking rapidly, Cas turned away. He disappeared behind the foliage, Dean gasping out helplessly. He wanted to follow him, but what would he do if he did?

He couldn't communicate with Cas, not anymore. And sign language was something he'd never learned.

Never bothered to.

Dean had gone back home feeling that, even over the first one his father had been absent from, this was the worst birthday he'd ever had. Somewhere, deep, deep inside, he'd always entertained the idea that, by some miracle, him and Cas would reunite some day. They'd finally just run into each other and Dean wouldn't have to come up with the courage to go over there himself. Face his guilt and everything he'd done.

But this… this was so much worse than that. Because Cas thought he'd thrown a brick through his window with a horrible message written across it. Even if they were to run into each other, Cas would hate him.

His best friend _hated him_.

No, they'd stopped being best friends a long time ago. When Dean had been too much of a coward to face what he'd done to Cas. When he'd forcefully severed ties between them due to his own stupid shame.

But it was one thing to hurt Cas once, and quite another to do it twice, and in such a horribly offensive manner. In a way that reminded Dean of the "Deaf Child Area" sign and how Cas had reacted to it. Because Cas's dad had left, and now Cas thought Dean had thrown bricks at him.

No, this wasn't okay.

It hadn't been okay for a long time.

The following day, Dean went to the school library. He checked out every single book he could on sign language – something he should have done a long time ago. He lugged them all home and studied harder than he ever had for anything. He stayed up for hours, making flash cards, practicing. Until he'd read three ASL books front to back and over again. He practiced in the mirror the single message that he wanted to be perfect, using it as a reason to keep putting off going across the street to deliver it.

And then, a month later, he got off the bus and looked across the street to something he never thought he'd see.

A moving truck, loaded from top to bottom with all the familiar furniture he remembered from his childhood.

Maybe he panicked a little.

Maybe, when his mother asked him to go to the grocery store later that night, he did so in a daze. Because Cas was moving. He was leaving. And the last five years that Dean had stayed away had been wasted.

He was going to move and take his hatred for Dean with him.

Walking down the aisles at the local grocer, he shoved things into the cart lazily, helplessness making him feel lethargic. Because what could he possibly do? Sure, he could apologize, but then what? Cas was leaving.

He'd be _gone_.

Pushing his cart toward the checkout lane, he passed a Valentine's Day display that, normally, he would have paid no mind. It was the night of February the 13th, so all the stores were stocked full. But Dean didn't have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. He hadn't ever wanted one.

And then, tucked in the back row of the display, something out of the ordinary – something yellow and black – caused him to pause.

A stuffed bee with a chocolate rose strapped inside its fuzzy legs. There was a cheesy tag to match, one that said "Bee Mine."

Perhaps it was corny, and not exactly the message Dean was trying to send, but it was just so perfect. He bought it, brought it home. Unloading the groceries for his mother, he then practiced his speech one more time in the mirror before taking a deep breath and gathering his courage. Because it was now or never.

End game.

With the bee in a plastic bag, he headed across the street to the Novak's. Amelia's car wasn't there – Dean knew she worked nights – but the light inside was on. It was a Friday, which meant Cas was home.

Going to the door, he punched the bell that would spur a flashing light to go off in every room, alerting Cas that someone was there. He waited, fidgeting some, nerves surging to his throat when the light behind the door flicked on. A second later, Cas was pulling it open, Dean freezing as those blue eyes hit him.

They stood, simply staring at each other, for a few seconds, Dean gulping. It wasn't until Cas's lips pursed, expression dropping into irritation, that Dean pushed himself to do something. Because getting the door slammed in his face wasn't part of the plan.

"I'm sorry!" he burst out, his thumb twitching out from his chin before he circled his fist over his chest. The signing was what caught Cas's attention, obviously, his expression clearing of his annoyance for a shocked second. Taking a deep breath – because he had Cas's attention at least for the moment – Dean dropped his grocery bag before continuing.

"I'm not the one who was throwing bricks through your window," he explained, hoping his signs were in accordance. "I saw someone else and chased after them. And then you came out and saw me. I know that doesn't excuse everything I've done, but I just wanted you to know that. I'd never… call you those things." The book had said he should speak as he signed, but it still felt strange. Because, for the first time in twelve years, Cas might actually know what he was trying to say.

Those blue eyes, wide as they were, simply blinked however, Dean prompted by inaction to continue.

"I'm sorry," he said again, hoping it meant something more as he circled his fist around his chest over and over.

And then something amazing happened.

Cas spoke to him.

"_You learn sign_," he hands said, Dean watching his expert speed and having to break it down before he understood. Because he'd never actually had a conversation in sign language before.

"Yes," he nodded.

"_When?_"

"Uh," he fumbled, the skill still rather new to him. He was slow in continuing, none of this part of his rehearsed speech. And quite a few words he had to spell out, simply because he hadn't learned the faster signs yet. "This last month. After the bricks."

"_Why?_" Cas's expression was fascinated, his question seeming odd. Because Dean thought he'd made his reasons clear. But perhaps he'd messed something up.

"Because," he double-checked himself. "I wanted to talk to you."

A broken whimper left Cas's lips, Dean unsure what to make of such a reaction. Because Cas appeared suddenly desperate, his eyes blinking as though he were upset.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again.

"_You learn so talk me?_" Cas signed once more. "_We not talk many years_."

"I know," Dean nodded, ashamed. "I should have learned before. A long time ago. Years ago. I never should have stopped talking to you." He hoped it was getting across to Cas, but his hands were a little shaky.

"_Why you stop talking me?_" Cas persisted. "_Not come over anymore. What I do?_" Dean's throat went dry then, Cas's searching, open eyes looking more hurt than ever. He was blaming himself for Dean's distance. He'd assumed it was his fault, which was the furthest thing from the truth. And only made Dean feel worse.

"You didn't do anything," Dean replied. "I did. I… I hurt you."

"_Hurt me?_" Cas shook his head. "_You never hurt me._"

"It was my fault," Dean went on. "The accident. You got hit by that car because of me." He wanted to say more, to go into detail about how he'd been angry, and he'd thrown the ball too hard. That he'd been selfishly frustrated and thoughtless. But he didn't know enough to say that. Didn't know how.

"_Not because you_," Cas cut in quickly. "_Get hit because I stupid. Because run into street. Not look._" Cas's shoulders fell. "_You think your fault?_"

"I threw the ball…"

"_I run after ball._" Cas sighed, his hands coming up to flurry over his face. Freckles. _Dean_.

"I heard the car coming," Dean admitted, his voice broken as his hands shook worse. "I couldn't warn you. I screamed at you, but I couldn't…"

"_I not hear,_" Cas smiled softly. "_Never hear. Not your fault. Never your fault._"

Dean was pretty sure Cas could see the way he blinked back the tears. "You could have _died_."

Cas released a shaky breath. "_But I not. I okay._"

Dean shook his head, images of Cas's limp body, bloody and laying the middle of the street, flashing through his head.

"Dean," his name left Cas's lips, forcing Dean's eyes up to him. "I'm… okay."

A tear did fall then, Dean reaching up and quickly wiping it away.

"I know," he nodded. "I was just… afraid."

Cas's lips pursed. For a moment, there was no signing between them, the light from the house shining down onto the porch as Dean tried to get his breathing under control. As Cas looked him over, his hands hesitant before he began again.

"Dean," the word fell off his tongue easily, green eyes coming back up to him. "_I…_" he paused, his hand held out from his chin. "_I alone without you._" This time it was Cas whose breath was shaking, Dean feeling guilt drop upon his shoulders yet again.

"You must have had other friends in school," Dean reasoned. "You must have."

"_No,_" Cas shook his head. Not to disagree, but because Dean wasn't understanding. Taking a step forward, he repeated himself. "_I alone without_ _**you**_." His finger came forward, brushing Dean's chest before it fell back to his side. He looked at Dean anxiously, willing him to understand, but Dean's furrowed brows verified his confusion. "_You best friend,_" Cas continued. "_Always together. You important. You __**everything**__._"

Dean thought his heart would fold right up in his chest.

"I know," Dean nodded. "I'm sorry. I-"

"_**No!**_" Cas shook his head furiously. "_Not care about sorry. Not matter. You not understand me. You…_" he gulped, nervous. "_You most important._

"_Love you._ _I… fall in love._ _Long time ago. Always you._"

Dean had to run those signs through his head a few times, if only because he was certain he wasn't interpreting them correctly. But it didn't matter how many times he considered it, it still came out the same. Cas hadn't just said he loved him, he'd said he was _in_ love with him. There was a specific sign for that and he'd used it. And then pointed at him.

Cas was in love with him.

"All this time?" Dean managed to fumble out.

"_Forever_."

And it was then, staring into those blue eyes, than Dean realized why he'd never been interested in anyone else. Maybe they'd been young, maybe they hadn't even known what love was, but that hadn't meant it wasn't there. It hadn't meant that the whole time Dean had been separated from Cas, he hadn't been feeling it too.

Been tortured by it for years.

Gathering himself, Dean crouched down. Reaching into the plastic bag he'd dropped previously, he pulled out the cheesy bee valentine before, cheeks flushing, handing it forth. Taking it, Cas squeezed it much like he had his own old stuffed animal years before, reading the card before flicking his eyes back up to Dean.

Certain he could at least get this one right, Dean silently moved his hand.

"_Me too._"

It'd been such a long time since he'd seen Cas smile.

And then the bee was dropped to the porch, Dean's eyes wide as Cas reached out and took him by his jacket. Pulling forward, Cas pressed their lips together, Dean falling into it seconds after as he returned the gesture. As his heart surged in his chest, his lips sucking at Cas's greedily. They stood together for a long moment, basking in the fact that, even after so many years, it felt exactly right.

Perfect.

When they did pull away, lips swollen and pink, Cas's smile returned, Dean's following quickly after. Yet, despite how thrilled he was with where this was going, one thing was still bothering him. Hands gripping Cas's waist, he articulated his words as he spoke, so his lips might be read.

"You're moving away."

"Just to town," Cas said, his hands linked behind Dean's neck as he spoke with a clarity Dean would have liked to hear develop. "Closer to school."

"You've gotten really good at talking."

"I…" Cas smiled. "I wanted to talk to you."

And so Dean kissed _him_ that time. He kissed him all night long.

* * *

><p>Follow me on tumblr - DemonDogDean<p> 


	6. Perfectly Okay

_Rumors about Dean Winchester's attempted suicide flood the hallways, but it isn't until Castiel finds a note from him in his locker that he considers doing something about it. Beginning a friendship that would lead them both home._

_Rated T for adult themes._

**Perfectly Okay**

"Dean Winchester tried to commit suicide last night."

They were the kind of rumors one never expected to hear when they walked through their school hallways. Of course it happened – it was in the news, kids and teenagers, they really did it sometimes. But it wasn't until it actually happened, that it was too late, that such things really hit home.

Castiel, gaping at what was being whispered around him, was sort of shell-shocked by the whole thing.

He wasn't particularly close to Dean Winchester. In fact, it was nearly the opposite. He'd even go so far as to say that the two of them didn't get along in the slightest. Dean was the always smiling, ever-extroverted jock type. Friends with everyone – everyone that was approved of anyway. Castiel wouldn't say he was a bully per se, but he certainly didn't stand up for any of the victims, as Castiel often found himself to be. He was more the type to stand in the background and laugh, not totally unsympathetic, but unhelpful as well.

And Castiel, well, he'd been outed accidentally by his cousin the year before, which meant he was the target of every sort of ridicule possible. To say he'd been bullied even more than previously was a bit of an understatement. Studious and smart, he hadn't exactly been in a good light in the first place, and being gay had only made it worse. But he'd kept his head up through it all, and had friends enough to stand it. He was optimistic, to say the least.

But if anyone were a fly on the wall in their high school, he knew he'd be the one supposed of trying such a thing. Not Dean Winchester. Not perfect, beautiful Dean Winchester.

"Wh… what do you mean?" Castiel asked dumbly, voice airy as he looked between Gabriel (said cousin who had given him away, and that he'd forgiven anyway) and Anna.

"What do you mean 'what do you mean?'" Gabriel hissed back, his eyes alight with the gossip. That was the type he was, always gathering the best and biggest news no matter the situation. Not in a harmful way. Usually. "Dean friggen' Winchester. I mean, I don't know what happened for real, but people are saying his mom found him in his room with his wrists slit. He's in the psyche ward of the hospital now. No one's allowed to see him, not even his parents."

"Wow," Anna's hand was cupping her lips, her expression just as dumbfounded as Castiel's.

"Kinda crazy, huh. Who'd of thought, Dean Winchester. He's, like, the most popular guy in school."

"That doesn't mean anything, Gabriel," Castiel said, his voice clearly scolding.

"How is it," Gabriel crossed his arms, "that the guy can be totally terrible to you and you still don't hold anything against him? I mean, you do know he's the one that started the rumor about you being gay in the first place, right? Before I accidentally gave it away?"

Castiel pursed his lips. "I never said I _liked_ the guy." But it still stood that someone he knew had tried to take their own life, had felt so cornered and desperate that they'd thought there was no other way out. What did it take, to get to that point? What had happened to Dean to make him feel like death was a better option?

Granted, Castiel went through his fair share of abuse – more than his fair share – but he'd never considered suicide before. Never even thought it an option.

"Hey, break it up," a teacher was saying as she passed them, probably having overheard their conversation. "Get going, get to your lockers." Throwing each other knowing looks, the three split up, Castiel heading down to his locker, for once not getting heckled because he wasn't the main concern on everyone's mind. Not that he was thankful. It was sad, really, and as he reached his locker, he found himself once again wondering about it. Like it was this big black hole of curiosity that would never be satisfied.

Eyebrows pulled together contemplatively, Castiel punched in his combination before pulling his locker open. The sheet of paper that flitted out fell softly to his feet.

Head cocking, Castiel stared at it for a moment, all nicely folded and taped, before bending down to pick it up. Looking it over front and back, he saw that his name was etched into one side by a pen. This wasn't something that belonged to him. Rather, it'd been given to him. Maybe slipped in-between the locker vents.

Heart picking up a little at the mystery of it all, he looked around quickly to make sure no one was paying him any mind before he closed his locker and walked over to the nearest window. Standing in the light, his backpack still strapped to his shoulders, he slipped his finger under the tape before opening up the page.

What he saw was a long, handwritten note, his eyes first darting around to the graceful pen strokes before taking note of the rumpled spots where it looked like it'd been wet. These things didn't mean anything however, not until he actually started reading, his mouth partway open as he did.

_Castiel, _

_First of all, I don't really know why I'm writing this. To you. I mean, I don't know you, and I've done a lot of horrible things to you, and you probably hate me. But I don't know who else I would say these things to, and I feel like someone should know. Maybe that's selfish, but you're the only person who might understand. _

_You probably don't know anything about my family, but my parents aren't the most liberal types. My dad especially, which is I guess where this is coming from. You probably don't care, and I don't blame you for that, but you're the only gay person I know. That I've met, I mean. I'm a little confused right now, to be honest. Because my dad and my church all say it's wrong, but then there are other people that say it's okay, and I just don't know what to do anymore. No one knows this, my parents and the pastor are keeping it shut up, but my mom found my stash of gay porn under my mattress. She told my dad, and now they've been taking me to these counseling sessions at the church. They keep telling me I'm sick, but I don't feel sick. And my dad doesn't talk to me anymore, he won't even look at me. And my mom only talks to me when she has to and acts like what I am is going to infect my little brother or something. She actually told him not to talk to me, and I feel so alone. None of my friends know, and I know I can't tell them. But I heard my parents talking last night, and they said they're going to send me to some pray the gay away camp this summer and I'm really scared to go. I don't want to go. I'm just really scared. And I don't know what to do anymore. If there is something wrong with me, then what am I supposed to do? My dad hates me. My mom thinks I'm messed up. And I don't have anyone to talk to. _

_I just wish it was all over, or that I wasn't like this. But every website I've been to has told me there's nothing wrong with me, that it's just the way I am. But if I can't be fixed, then that's almost worse. Because my whole family is going to hate me forever and I don't think I can deal with that. I don't want to deal with any of it anymore, and I'm so afraid of what everyone will say. I see the way they treat you and I don't know how you take it. You're so brave, and I'm not. I'm not strong like you are, and I just want it all to be over._

_I just want it to end. _

_I guess if you're reading this, then I probably made my decision. I wouldn't give it to you if I hadn't. And I don't expect you to care. I just wanted someone to know. Like maybe writing this to you is like really talking to you, I don't know. I don't know anything. _

_I'm really sorry for everything I did to you. I've never said this to another guy before, but since it doesn't matter anymore, I guess I can. I think you're really cute, and I wish I'd actually talked to you, at least once. It's too late now, but I want you to know that. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. _

_Dean _

It took Castiel a moment to recover, the tear that had leaked down his cheek going totally unknown to him. It occurred to him some seconds later that he was holding a suicide note. That Dean Winchester had written one and that _he'd_ been the recipient. He didn't really know what to make of that, and part of him was shocked. Shocked that this would happen at all. That he was so much closer to what had happened than he realized.

And then he was sad, his chest shaking as the terrible, horrible realization of what had happened occurred to him. Dean was gay, or something like, and he'd tried to kill himself because of it. Because his family hadn't supported him the way Castiel's had, and none of his friends had known. For a moment, Castiel realized that he might have been in Dean's shoes once. That he was only a step away from being that person too.

He didn't know Dean Winchester that well, but holding that letter, he realized that he – in that moment – knew him better than anyone. And that was heartbreaking.

The paper was crumpling in his hand, and he was wiping his eyes, the hall behind empty. Because the bell had rung already and he was still standing out there, staring at the note, trying to figure out what to do.

Dean had reached out to him, even if he hadn't intended to be alive when Castiel read what he'd written. He was the only one, of everyone Dean knew, that understood the truth. That actually got it.

Castiel had been alone once too, and he didn't wish that feeling on anyone.

Folding the note abruptly, he stuffed it into his pocket before heading down the hall. He went straight for the front doors, his legs carrying him to his car before he even had the chance to realize he was there. Tossing his bag in the back seat, he was soon pulling out of the school, no care at all for anything but where he was going. Where he knew he _needed_ to go.

There was a stigma about suicide, he was fully aware of that. Even if people felt bad for you, they wouldn't acknowledge it, not unless they were the closest, most understanding of friends. Castiel wasn't that for Dean, but his letter had also made it clear that no one else was either. That was reason enough. Castiel defended his actions with that in mind.

There was only one hospital nearby, so Castiel went there. He parked and headed inside. The woman at the front desk told him that Dean was on the eighth floor, the psyche floor, and that his room was 818. So Castiel went up.

It was a closed floor however, and he had to check in before he could see anyone.

"I'm really sorry," the receptionist was telling him. "Mr. Winchester is being kept under observation until further notice. No one is allowed to see him."

"Is he okay, though?" Castiel asked, beginning to get anxious. "He's not in critical condition or anything, right?"

"I can't…" she was shaking her head. "I don't have that kind of-"

"You're here to see Dean Winchester?" A woman had just walked through the double doors, her brown hair cut short, a clipboard in her hands. She looked Castiel up and down as she approached, her white lab coat flapping some. "You're not a member of his family."

"No, I…" Castiel gulped. "My name is Castiel Novak. I'm… I know him from school." He didn't, not really, but that seemed like a convincing enough thing to say.

"Castiel," the doctor nodded. "He mentioned you."

"He did?" Castiel was honestly surprised.

"Why don't you come with me," she issued, nodding toward the corner of the empty waiting room. "I'd like to speak with you."

"Uh, alright," Castiel agreed, following her over before they sat down. Well away from where the receptionist might hear.

"My name is Dr. Mills," she continued, her voice firm yet understanding in the same motion. "I'm Dean's psychologist." Castiel nodded, eyebrows furrowed, but didn't interrupt. "I've been talking a lot with him today, so I have a pretty good idea about what's happening here. I also know that he gave you a note, before this happened."

"Yes, he did," Castiel nodded, reaching into his pocket before pulling it out. He handed it to her, supposing that perhaps she could get more out of it than he could.

"Castiel," she looked down at the note only quickly before turning her attention back to him. "I'll be honest, I'm little surprised to find you here. Dean made it pretty clear that you two weren't friends. That he felt he'd done some pretty terrible things to you." Castiel pursed his lips. "He's in a very vulnerable position right now, as I'm sure you've gathered." Pause. "Part of me wants to let you in to see him, but only after you tell me why you came here."

"I thought no one was allowed to see him?"

"They're not," she affirmed. "For his own safety. Which is why, again, I want to know why you came here today."

"Well, I…" Castiel grappled for the right words. "We… we don't really know each other, that's true, but I know… I know what it's like to feel guilty, and to be alone. And I don't want anyone else to feel the way." Really, that was the truth of it.

"You don't hold any ill will toward him?"

He considered the question for a moment. "No, I don't," he finally decided. "I know why he acted the way he did, and I know how frustrating it can be. But it was worse for him. His family isn't like mine. He needs someone, and if I'm not it, then who else will be?"

Dr. Mills smiled just shortly. Maybe a little bitterly.

"You're right," she nodded. "He does need someone. He needs a friend. A real friend. I've already spoken with his family, namely his father, and it doesn't look good. But when I asked him if there was anyone he could go to, he didn't have anyone. I'm not ignorant to these types of things, and his father's lack of sympathy over what happened tells me a lot. Castiel… Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I- yes," he nodded. "Yes, I understand."

"He's still a minor, and it'd be frowned upon me letting you in to see him, especially without any of his family having seen him yet. So, do you understand what I mean when I say he's in a rather delicate state right now?"

Castiel gulped. "Yes."

"Just so we're clear."

He nodded.

She stood shortly after, gesturing him to follow. Not even acknowledging the receptionist as she punched them through to the ward, she led Castiel confidently past the nurses and other doctors, no one even batting an eye at the teenager trailing her. It wasn't until she reached room 818 that she stopped. Pulling out her keycard, she swiped it through, motioning for Castiel to wait while she paused in the doorway, the door closing behind her.

"Dean," Castiel heard her say. "There's someone here to see you. Is it alright if I let them in?" Pause. Maybe Dean was replying. Castiel couldn't make it out. "No, it's not a family member." Shortly after, she came back out, nodding that it was okay for Castiel to take her place.

Breathing deeply, Castiel pushed his way inside.

What he saw nearly left him standing shocked in the doorway.

Yes, it was Dean Winchester. But it also wasn't. Not in the way Castiel had grown accustomed to him. He was slumped back against the headboard of his hospital bed, clad in a thin, spotted grown. His hair was untamed, his normally intimidating figure seeming small amongst the sheets and pillows. Around his wrists, thick bandages were wrapped, a blue bracelet on the right one as well. He wasn't hooked up to any monitors, which spoke well, but he was pale, and weighted, and the sight nearly ran Castiel through.

Because no one should look like that.

And as Castiel closed the door behind him, those green eyes flicked up, the space between them thick as they both processed the situation.

As Dean realized who he was, and what his presence there implied.

He broke down then. Castiel would probably remember it for the rest of his life, what he saw in those moments – be it for better or worse. It was sheer and uncensored misery. Shame too, and a kind of helpless humiliation. Dean's eyes fell away, looking to the side as they filled with tears. His mouth contorted into a sob that he tried to hold back, but couldn't, and his whole chest ruptured and shook. His hands gripped at the sheets till his knuckles turned white, and he gasped out like someone who'd been crying on and off all day. Like it was coming as a force of habit he couldn't control.

Those lips quivered, and tears fell – and Castiel tried to figure out what he should do.

"Dean…" the name left him quietly, his own throat lurching with dryness at the sight of Dean's despair. He made his way across the room, to the side of the bed, but still Dean wouldn't look at him. He hunched forward, shoulders shaking as he visibly tried to hold back the sob ripping through him, but it was too much. Too powerful. He gasped out, more of those salty tears dripping down his cheeks.

"Dean, it's okay," Castiel reasoned softly, hesitating only momentarily before he reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "It's going to be okay." He didn't know what else to say, or if he should even say anything at all.

But then Dean pulled his hand up to his mouth, as if to vainly cover his exposed emotions. It failed, they kept bursting through. Until finally he gave in, still shaking, still crying, as he glanced up at Castiel. As he took the comfort that was being offered there.

Sitting down on the side of the mattress, Castiel reached out and wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders. Holding him tight, he felt the dam collapse further, sobs wracking Dean's whole body as he reached out and took hold of Castiel's shirt. He buried his face in his chest, his hands shaking as he grasped at the fabric between his fingers. As he ducked down into the protective halo Castiel was trying his best to pull around him. Like a security blanket, maybe, or a mote.

He laid his cheek against Dean's hair, he rocked him, and he told him over and over again that it was going to be alright. He didn't know how or when, but it would be. That didn't mean things would get better, not right away, but things would be okay. They _could_ be okay – they just had to find the right path in the shade.

They sat there a long time, saying nothing. Not needing to.

It wasn't until Dean had fallen silent, only the echoing shakes remaining up and down his skin, that he finally pushed away. He shied away from Castiel slowly, as if his shame was creeping back in. He turned away, Castiel feeling helpless once more as his arms fell away. As he waited – because only Dean could know when he was ready.

"I thought," Dean's voice was choked, rough, and congested. "I thought you'd h-hate me."

"I've never hated you, Dean," Castiel assured quietly, trying to keep his voice smooth. "It's the ones who… who hurt others that are in the most pain."

His verdict caused a new wave of tears to leaked down those freckled cheeks, the heel of Dean's hand coming up to wipe them away.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out. "I'm really sorry."

"I know," Castiel placed his hand on his back, stroking gently. "I forgive you."

"How do you not hate me?" he glanced brokenly over at him. "I know I do…"

"You shouldn't," Castiel said almost firmly. "There's nothing you've done that can't be pardoned, and nothing you are that's wrong. I know that… that who you are scares you, and that you're worried about losing the people you love, but if they can't accept you for who you are, then they don't love you as much as they should." A harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Dean gulped. "Then no one does," his fingers flexed into the sheets again.

"That's not true," Castiel assured. "There are people all around you that have the potential to love you, that could if you'd just give them the chance. It's hard, I know, and it terrified me too. And it… it wasn't easy, but, Dean, you can't just give up."

More and more tears.

"Please, you can't," Castiel felt his own eyes well up. "You're so much more than what a few ignorant idiots think, or what you father thinks. They don't define you; only you can do that. Don't let this be what defines you, Dean. Don't stop here."

"I don't know what to do," he admitted weakly.

"Then we'll figure it out together," Castiel reached out and placed his other hand over Dean's. "You need someone to talk to, you can talk to me. You need a friend, then I'll be there. You need somewhere to go – somewhere safe – then I'll give you my address." He smiled weakly, thankful when Dean met his gaze.

Thankful when he nodded. "Thank you."

Castiel squeezed his hand, not objecting when Dean linked their fingers together, or when he leaned his head on Castiel's shoulder.

He stayed with him the whole time.

He stayed.

The days that followed weren't easy, but Castiel came to see Dean every day. When none of his "friends" were there, Castiel was. And when his parents had the pastor come in to talk, Dean asked that Castiel be there, which was the first time he met John and Mary. Mary, who seemed just as confused as her son, and John who was angry – angry and blinded.

Dean didn't respond to the pastor, he ignored him the whole time. Didn't say a word. And when John got frustrated with his attitude afterward, Castiel called the nurse to get him to leave. Mary stayed a few more minutes, torn on what to do, but eventually following John.

Castiel stayed overnight then, the two of them watching Doctor Sexy well after midnight with unflavored hospital popcorn that got sent flying at the small television more often than it ended up in their stomachs.

When he went home that morning before school, Castiel's mother, who he'd updated on the situation, asked how things were. He replied that it wasn't good, so she took it upon herself to start cleaning out their spare room. Which was a fair decision on her part, because a day after he left the hospital, Dean called Castiel and explained that if he didn't agree to go to church counseling as his father was demanding, he was going to be kicked out of the house.

Five days after Castiel first went to visit him, Dean moved into the room beside his own. Naomi, Castiel's mother, was a single mom, but Dean promised to get a job, which she tried to say wasn't necessary, but that he did anyway. Rumors ran around the school when he finally went back, and Castiel didn't push him when he ignored the fact that they were friends. Dean ignored all his friends however, so Castiel didn't feel particularly singled out.

Besides, him and Dean got on just fine outside school, Castiel learning that Dean was a much more sensitive, compassionate young man than he'd ever let anyone in on. He liked musicals and poetry, and was much more studious than Castiel ever would have fathomed.

It took two weeks before Dean was okay with Castiel having his own friends over, a meeting he had to prepare them for. Because they'd been rather ruffled at Castiel's silent distance, but quickly straightened up upon learning the truth. They didn't mention it to Dean, what had happened, but they were friendly, and soon all awkwardness was dispersed.

Dean hesitantly sat with them at lunch after that, walking an odd line between popular jock and blossoming outcast. Castiel's own image couldn't be overcome however, and soon new rumors were flooding the hallways. Things about why Dean had tried to kill himself, and the fact that him and Castiel Novak spent an awful lot of time together. They were just friends, but that hardly stopped the gossip.

Sam, Dean's younger brother, started to sneak over to see him. He pretended to be in a study group, but really spent a few hours every few days with his brother, who was honest about what had happened and relieved when Sam hadn't cared. His parents' prejudices weren't shared, it was appear.

Summer came, Dean's mother eventually insisting that he come home. John wasn't pleased about it, and made that perfectly clear, but Dean refused to be shamed. He went home, and a rift spilled out between his parents. It started slow, but by the end of the next year, they were separated, Mary far more educated on the situation once Naomi had gotten a hold of her.

Castiel and Dean were best friends, and though kids at school soon forgot the horror of Dean trying to take his own life, they didn't let their biting words get to them. They graduated together, and even went to the same college, which pleased both parties.

Mary and John got divorced, and it was messy, and Dean blamed himself, but Castiel held him up. Just as Dean eventually did for him when Naomi was diagnosed with breast cancer. She made it, but that didn't make the late nights spent at the hospital any easier. Castiel was thankful for the late-night junk food runs Dean did then, and even more thankful when he brought coffee in the morning.

Their junior year away from home, they decided to get an apartment together. Roommates, two of the lucky ones that could live together without their friendship suffering for it. Rather, it thrived, a development that didn't go unnoticed by either party. But life was hectic, and they were busy, so things that maybe shouldn't have been got pushed to the back burner. Castiel studied abroad in England for a year, which did put some distance between them, but it was manageable.

When they graduated, again together, they went out with Naomi, Mary, and Sam to celebrate, deciding to forgo any serious partying to simply go home and watch Doctor Sexy reruns in their underwear. A tradition that stemmed back from that single night in the hospital, though the "only underwear" thing was a newer development.

Maybe they were both a little drunk, and maybe a little too comfortable. Neither were virgins, but that was the first night they slept together, quite unexpectedly. Wrapped up in one another on their ratty couch, they rocked together, best friends even after they woke up in a tangled heap.

Dean asked Castiel to marry him that same morning, even though he didn't have a ring and it was unplanned. They'd never even been on an official date, but Castiel said yes. Because all those late night movie marathons and study sessions had to count for something.

They fell in love. And it wasn't perfect, but it was alright.

It was enough.

* * *

><p>Follow me on tumblr - DemonDogDean<p> 


	7. Coming Home

_Dean finally gets up the courage to ask out the cute boy who works the reference desk in the library. When he's rejected however, he assumes it's because Castiel simply isn't interested. Until they find each other in the middle of a blizzard, Dean learning that maybe Castiel's rejection stems from something entirely different than disinterest. _

_Every year, thousands of homeless college students go unnoticed. They slip through the cracks, where there's no one to catch them when they fall. _

_Rated T for adult themes._

**Coming Home**

Dean supposed he was kind of cute.

Okay, maybe that was a lie. He was _really_ cute. With the disheveled, dark brown hair, and those big, big blue eyes. There were slight bags beneath them, like the skin hooked up over his high cheeks bones, and his lips pulled into these delicate, pretty points. Yes, Dean had spent a considerable time watching the other boy, taking in such features. He spent a considerable amount of time at the library anyway, being an English major, and _Castiel_ spent a considerable amount of time behind the reference desk, where he worked. It seemed only natural that they run into each rather often, or so Dean had reasoned upon realizing he saw Castiel almost every day.

He didn't come to the library _just_ to see those blue eyes however. That'd be ridiculous.

Biting his lip, he watched as Castiel ran someone through the computer, no doubt looking something up, his mouth muttering out an explanation as the clueless student asked more questions.

Dean sighed.

"Why don't you just go talk to him?" Charlie muttered in his ear, Dean starting before turning to look at her. She was standing behind him, arms crossed over her chest as she cocked a knowing eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay," Dean frowned, not appreciative of his friend's suggestion. Charlie worked at the library too, at the front desk, and sometimes joined Dean after her shift ended, the two of them studying some before heading back to their respective dorms.

"I'm serious," she persisted, flopping down in the chair beside him. "What's the worst that could happen? All he can do is say 'no.'"

"That is the worst that could happen," Dean grumbled out, looking down at his textbook as his teeth ground together. The idea of talking to Castiel, or maybe even asking him out, not only put his heart a-flutter, but sent a kind of hesitant fear down through him. He didn't want to be rejected, and would take silent watching over that any day.

"So you're just going to stalk him for the rest of however long you're both going here?" Charlie sighed. "Wow, what a trade-off."

"I don't even know if he likes guys, okay?!" Dean hissed rather violently. "I don't know anything about him, actually." This realization was a rather glum one – an inevitability of staying distant.

"Well…" Charlie put her finger to her cheek thoughtfully. "I don't know much about him either, to be honest. But… he's kind of a weird guy, actually." Dean's brows furrowed curiously. "I mean, he's pretty quiet most of the time, keeps to himself. And he has this weird habit of bringing two backpacks with him to work." Her head fell to the side thoughtfully. "They're always full, but I'm not sure what he keeps in them. Maybe he's a drug dealer…"

"Shut up, Charlie," Dean huffed, looking back down at his book again.

"I'm serious!" she leaned forward, smiling. "They're so full, sometimes I think the zippers are gonna bust open. Like he's got his whole life packed up inside them or something."

"Maybe he's just got a lot of books for his classes," Dean growled out, growing rather tired of her pestering.

"Maybe…" she agreed, eyes narrowing, "or its _drugs_."

"Really?!" Dean slammed his book closed. "You're ridiculous."

"Druuuuggggssss!" she hissed as Dean rose to his feet, ready to return his book to the reference desk. He'd been ready for a while, but the longer he'd kept it, the longer he got to sit at the back table and watch Castiel. As it was, the line in front of the reference section had finally depleted, Dean always feeling more comfortable interacting with Castiel when no one was waiting. Even if all he did was return the book, say "thanks," and walk away again.

"Hey!" Charlie called to him as he headed off, Dean looking over his shoulder. All she did was waggle her eyebrows suggestively however, to which he rolled his eyes.

About halfway across the library, Castiel finally noticed him approaching, Dean doing his best not to blush as those blue eyes followed him – stayed focused till he was standing before the desk, his hand rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Castiel was looking up at him from his seat, initially saying nothing.

Until he _did_. "Dean?" he questioned, the sound of his name inside that voice causing the one in question to jump.

"What?" he asked out stupidly.

"Are you returning that?" Castiel gestured to the book in his hand, the one he'd come up and failed to give back.

"Oh, yeah, right," Dean cleared his throat, dropping it onto the desk with a louder thump than he'd intended. "Sorry…" Was that a small smile on Cas's lips, as his long fingers slid the volume the rest of the way over?

"It's okay," Castiel said quietly, going about scanning the book back into the system. His gaze kept flicking up however, a fact Dean didn't fail to notice. Like he was waiting for something, or expecting something. But he already had the book.

Charlie's advice filtered through Dean's head.

"So," Dean gulped, not sure at all what he was doing. "Crazy… crazy weather we've been having." Really? The weather? That was the best he could come up with? No one would believe he'd been the popular jock type in high school – ladies fawning all over him – when considering he couldn't even start a proper conversation with one boy!

"It's cold," Castiel stated, finished scanning the book back before turning his attention fully to Dean. "I'm not a huge fan of the snow." They were going to college in Michigan however, so it could hardly be helped.

"Yeah, me neither," Dean agreed, his hands slipping into his pockets as he stared down at his feet.

He didn't see the way Castiel bit the inside of his lip, or how his eyes narrowed critically.

"I, uh, I like your shirt," Castiel said a moment later, his deep voice softer than before, and drawing Dean's eyes back his way.

"Uh, yeah, The Police," Dean pulled down on the hem of the it, as if to further reveal the graphic. "They're pretty great…"

"Yeah…"

Pause.

"Well, thanks for the book," Dean cleared his throat, taking a deep breath. "I'll, uh, I'll see ya later." He waved shortly, taking a step back. Castiel nodded, Dean not waiting long enough to see if he waved too before turning to run away.

It was the exasperated, defeated look on Charlie's face across the room that caused him to pause again. To take a deep breath, straighten, and glance over his shoulder – just barely. Castiel was still watching him, sitting somewhat hunched in his seat.

"Uh, hey," Dean plucked up his courage, turning back to the desk. "I was wondering if- if you'd be interested in, uh," Castiel's lips had parted some, his big blue eyes wide, "want to, maybe, I dunno, go out with me sometime? Like- like dinner or-or a movie… or something." Dean knew his cheeks were red, his neck too, and he wanted, more than anything, to hide under the nearest table and never come out.

"I…" Castiel blinked, clearly taken aback. "I…"

Dean raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"I… can't," Castiel finally choked out, his breath trembling in his chest. "I'm sorry." He didn't want to reject Dean, really. Dean, who was so pretty with his freckles and the reading glasses he sometimes wore. And those green eyes. And who was really smart and nice and looked totally devastated.

Even if he was trying to hide it.

"Oh… that's fine," Dean exhaled deeply, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. "Don't be sorry." He laughed awkwardly, Castiel's lips pursing painfully. "It's fine, cool, really." Dean forced a smile onto his face. "I, uh, wasn't expecting you to say yes anyway, so…" He backed up a step. "Yeah, I'll, well, I'm just," he gestured back to his table, "gonna go then…"

Castiel wanted so badly to take it back, to say yes and pull those green eyes back his way. But he just… couldn't. He was too ashamed, and embarrassed, and knew he was in no position to go on a date. With anyone. Really, when he'd realized what Dean was doing, he'd wanted more than anything for him to stop. To wait.

But wait for what? Castiel's situation wasn't going to be changing any time soon.

Instead, he watched from his desk, almost wanting to cry as Dean packed up his stuff, spoke shortly to Charlie, and practically ran out of the library. Charlie went with him, Castiel's whole body sinking as he stared blankly at his computer screen. As he took a shaking breath and tried to reason that he'd said the right thing. After all, Dean wouldn't want to go out with him if he knew the truth. No one would.

Which was what he kept telling himself all the afternoon and evening, feeling empty and depressed as he silently checked people in and out, his voice flat when answering questions. It wasn't until ten o'clock started to role around that he noticed the regular flow of students had died down considerably, hardly anyone in the library. Which was rare for a Wednesday night.

"I hear it's getting pretty bad out," Meg's voice drew Castiel's attention, his head whipping around to find her leaning against the desk beside him. She was staring at her nails, apparently having abandoned her post in the stacks.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked, clueless.

"The storm," she nodded to the dark windows, where no amount of foul weather would be visible in the dark. "They say it's going to be one of the worst in fifty years. Temps in the teens, forty to sixty mile-an-hour winds. And they're saying between two and four feet of snow."

Castiel didn't reply, instead taking a deep breath. Well, he supposed it could snow all it wanted. He'd just stay inside.

"Hey, you two," Naomi, the head librarian, had rounded the corner to speak to them. "The university is shutting down. Get your stuff together and go home before it gets any worse out." A few of the other student employees were already bundled up and heading out, Castiel blinking in momentary confusion at her words. Meg had heeded the message, going to grab her things from where she kept them behind the reference desk. It was only Castiel who remained frozen, mouth hanging open.

"Hey, let's get out of here," Meg nudged him out of his stupor, poking him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, right," Castiel replied, nodding stupidly. Quite outside himself, he shut down his computer before standing and slipping on his worn, jean jacket. It was somewhat insulated, but hardly counted as a winter coat. Lastly, he pulled on his hat and gloves, strapping one of his packs to his back before slipping the large shoulder bag over his left.

Feet heavy in his clunky winter boots, he trailed Meg and Naomi lastly out of the library, the winds whipping down across campus causing them all to squint as the doors were locked. Exchanging short farewells, bundled up in their coats and scarves, the students and librarians quickly cleared the scene, Castiel the only one taking his time walking along the building, flinching against the pelleting snow.

What was he supposed to do?

_Where was he supposed to go?_

Castiel hadn't imagined that the library would close, that the whole university would shut down. The library never closed – it was supposed to be open twenty-four seven. The only place he knew he could always go and stay, not having to worry about getting kicked out. But now he was standing outside, barely in the shelter of the building, and beginning to shiver against the storm. He tried to think quickly of a place he could go, anywhere that would be open. But he knew that most of the campus buildings closed after ten, and that all of them would be locked up if the college had shut down.

Peering out across the blustering landscape, he could see the vague glow of lamps, high above his head and fighting as best they could against the dying visibility. No one walked beneath them, no one dared go out in the blizzard. He was utterly alone, only the sound of his ragged breathing inside the whistling of the snow audible.

Already his face was numb, his whole body shaking. It quickly occurred to him that if he didn't find shelter, he was going to freeze. Literally. He didn't have the energy or the clothing to fight the cold, his empty stomach reminding him even more severely. He hadn't eaten since the morning prior, his lack of food making it all that much harder to stand up against the weather.

Pulling his hands up to his face, he breathed out, trying to shield his skin some. His gloves were old, worn, and his fingers were beginning to chill along with his toes. He wondered if maybe there was a McDonalds or something still open, or maybe a Walmart. The buses wouldn't be running however, so he'd have to walk. The nearest ones were at least forty-five minutes by foot, and as he peered again out into the whiteness, he realized he'd never make it.

He was going to die there, beside the library. They'd find his body covered in snow, blue and frostbitten.

Sinking down against the wall, he gulped, knowing there were tears welling up in his eyes despite his cheeks being too numb to really feel them as they fell. Pulling his bag from his back, he placed it between his chest and knees, which he pulled up helplessly. He buried his face there, the chill of the concrete beneath his butt, the building against his back, making him only colder.

His teeth chattered, and the wind howled, and he felt his fingers hurting with the biting cold. Pulling them up behind his bag, he tried to rub them together, but it was doing little inside the gloves. The harsh storm pounded on him, splattering him with snow until he was but a shaking lump of white.

He knew it'd only take hours and he'd be gone entirely.

It wasn't fair. He'd come to college even though everyone had told him he couldn't. He'd fought them every step, paid his tuition out of pocket or with what few scholarships he qualified for. All he'd wanted to do was graduate, to show that he could. That he wasn't worthless and that his dreams of becoming a writer, of publishing just one measly book, weren't ridiculous.

He'd worked so hard…

His nose was freezing as he breathed, his eyelashes heavy with ice as he blinked. As he closed them, if only because it was easier than trying to fight the cold. He tried to think of other things – of his classes and how many great, new people he'd met. People that didn't know the truth. About his job, and how much he loved it. And that it allowed him to see interesting students like Meg and Dean. Dean, who'd asked him out and was so far out of his league. And who he'd had to turn down. Because he couldn't afford to go out, couldn't afford to look nice. He hadn't even been able to afford to go to the laundromat in a week, the only thing hiding it being the showers he took at the rec center.

But his mind was quickly being pulled to other things. To the cold against the exposed skin of his neck, and how his stomach sucked back against his spine, as if cowering. How violently his body shook, and how dry the air was as he breathed.

Until the cold was all there was. All he had left.

"Shit, really?!" Dean muttered, shuddering down into his scarf and heavy coat. "Even the library is closed?" He knew the storm was bad, but he hadn't considered that the whole university would shut down. He'd just wanted to get his phone, which he'd left in his mad dash to get away from Castiel. He'd waited until he'd been absolutely sure his shift had to be over, but now he wished he'd just waited till morning. Granted, he'd grown up in northern Michigan, so the storm didn't particularly bother him, but still. He'd put on his snow pants and everything to make the trek, and now he had to go all the way back. Well, at least his dorm was only some ten minutes away.

Turning, he was about to head back out into the blizzard, head bowed against the wind, when something caught his eye. He wasn't quite sure what it was initially, sitting up against the side of the building. But he knew it wasn't a bush – too small, for one, and for two, he had yet to discover any foliage that could both grow on concrete and in the middle of winter. Squinting, he swore he saw it move beneath the thin layer of white. Yeah, it was definitely moving.

Or perhaps trembling was a better word.

"Hey!" Dean called, approaching quickly as he heart surged forward in concern. "You shouldn't be out here. It's fuckin' cold!" Common sense, really, but he tried not to judge.

Crouching down beside the shivering person, he reached out, laying a hand on their knee in an attempt to get their attention. Still nothing however, so he shook them, disturbed by how long it took before that head slowly rose to look at him. Pale, frozen skin, white lashes, quivering lips.

And blue, blue eyes.

"Castiel?"

"D-Dean?" his barely there voice managed to croak out.

"What the hell are you sitting out here for?!" Dean was almost angry. Almost. "There's a friggen' blizzard happening, in case you failed to notice." His reprimand got him nowhere. "Are you waiting for someone?"

Still nothing, those lips quivering even more as his blue eyes closed. As he sank back against the building.

"Hey," Dean's whole body lurched, his voice quieter as his eyes widened in panic. "Cas, c'mon, what… what are you doing?"

But there was nothing.

For a moment, Dean didn't know what to do. He looked around, stupidly thinking that he should get someone to help. He didn't have his phone, after all, and really thought maybe 911 was necessary. Yet even as he thought as much, he realized that there was no way an ambulance would be able to get there. Not in weather like this, not in a timely manner.

He was on his own.

Looking back down at Castiel, he took note of his thin jacket, and his heavy bags. Bloated and round, not like they were stuffed with books, but with clothes or something equally plush.

Dean pursed his lips.

"Alright, c'mon," he muttered, resolved. Taking Castiel's bag out of his unresponsive hands, he slung it around onto his own back before placing the other in Cas's lap. Reaching up under the folded body, he prepared himself to lift, both surprised and disturbed by how light Castiel was. Castiel, who was in no way a small person and who Dean had noticed tended to wear clothes a little too big for him.

Gulping, he pulled Castiel's body as close to his own as he could before turning to face the storm. He knew he had limited time, and that heading out of the shelter of the library would be even worse for the boy in his arms. Still, he could do it. He had to.

Bracing himself, he hunkered out into the snow, eyes narrowed as he maneuvered his way down the drifting sidewalks. He was half jogging, careful not to slip, but aware that he had to hurry. With Castiel in his arms, it was much easier to ignore the snow and the cold, his thoughts set determinedly on reaching his dorm. On getting there before it was too late.

If it wasn't already.

Much like the blowing snow, his hike back to his dorm was a blurred mess of heavy breathing and pumping legs. Resituating Castiel so he was holding him up across his shoulder with one arm, he reached into the pocket of his snow pants and pulled out his ID. Slipping in through the scanner attached to the back door, he reached out and fought his way inside against the drift, thinking that every part of getting in was going to be made as difficult as possible.

He stumbled in eventually however, spitting snow from his mouth and wiping it from his eyes before he re-hefted Castiel against him – one hand around his back, the other held up under his butt. The stairs were just to his left, empty and quiet as Dean headed up them. Thankful he was only on the next floor up, he bit his lip as he headed down the hall, unsure what he'd do if he encountered anyone, but uncertain whether it was good that he hadn't.

Well, once he got Castiel inside his room, he'd survey what to do next.

Still holding his keycard, he balanced Castiel somewhat precariously as he shoved his way into his single room (got it through scholarship). Finally fumbling inside, he stumbled over to his couch before placing Castiel there, huffing some before dropping the loaded backpack to the floor and yanking off his hat.

He crouched down in front of Castiel.

"Hey, wake up," he tried to encourage, holding Castiel's jaw in his hands as he pushed his hat back on his head. His pale, clammy skin was even more obvious in the clear lighting, Dean only quickly considering the situation before taking action.

"Alright, Cas," he said in determination. "Don't hate me for what I'm doing, okay?" He thought maybe he saw those lashes twitch, but didn't take the time to figure out for certain. Instead, he yanked Castiel's shoulder bag off before pulling apart the buttons of his coat, quickly shucking the wet, snow-covered article from his shoulders before dropping it to the floor. His gloves had come off with it, Castiel's whole body flinching away at the lack of covering.

Finally, his eyes fluttered open.

"It's okay," Dean assured, a shiver running up the entirety of Castiel's frozen frame before the trembling became constant once again. "You're gonna be okay." Dean wasn't sure if he was saying it more for his own sake or Castiel's, his desperation the only thing keeping him on track. He yanked Castiel's boots from his feet, disturbed further by how damp his socks were. Those came off too, his toes a purple-red that nearly made Dean nauseous.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice cracked out weakly, Dean pausing to flick his attention up. To catch himself in those blue eyes. "I'm s-s-s-sorry."

"Don't even think about it," Dean assured, smiling weakly. He could tell Castiel wanted to say more, but was trembling too violently to do so. Which drew Dean back to his task. Throwing up an apologetic look, he didn't hesitate in popping the button to Castiel's jeans before pulling the stiff, snow-coated articles down his legs. He could feel how cold to the touch Castiel's skin was as he did, and it spurred him to only go faster.

Lastly, he yanked up Castiel's t-shirt, the sight of his clammy, quivering skin almost too much.

Lifting him easily, he took Castiel to the bed in the corner, laying him down on the mattress before pulling the covers over him. He knew it wouldn't be enough, quickly heading over to his closet before pulling down the quilt his mother had made from the top shelf. It was heavy and tended to make Dean too hot, hence he didn't use it very often, but it'd be perfect in that moment. Laying it too over Castiel's chattering body, he then went about removing his own jacket and snow pants, lifting his sweatshirt and t-shirt away before hopping out of his boots, his socks going with them. Dropping his jeans lastly, he threw one more apologetic look at the boy he hardly knew, who was watching him, before lifting the covers and sliding in beside him. Making sure they were fully swathed, he wrapped his arms around Castiel and pulled him up again his chest, a shiver running down his own body in the same moment.

"You're like a fucking ice cube," he muttered, his hands running up and down Castiel's back as he pulled his legs around his lower half. "What the hell were you doing just sitting out there?"

He didn't get a response however, Castiel far too preoccupied with trying to get warm to answer. Or maybe he was just too ashamed. Dean supposed it could be either way, since he'd somewhat come to understand what was going on. He didn't push the subject however, instead remaining focused on warming the unfortunate victim of the storm.

Which was why he never let up on his hold, even as Castiel shivered and shivered. He held him close, and he covered him as best he could. He waited, and worried, and didn't even consider letting go until well after the quaking became a mere tremble, one that died in and out occasionally. Until his skin wasn't as cold as ice, and his breathing had evened out to a regular pace.

It was only when he recalled that food and water helped too, and that Castiel was so thin, that he pulled away. He slid back out of the blankets, tucking them snuggly around the other boy before crouching down beside the bed.

For a moment, he did nothing, those blue eyes blinking out at him for only a moment before they looked away. They flicked down to the bed, Castiel pulling the blue and yellow quilt further up to his nose.

"Cas…" Dean gulped, his tone soft. "Are you… are you homeless?"

He got his answer in the way Castiel's eyes squeezed shut, his breath hiccupping as tears leaked down across his cheeks. As if the word itself was enough to kick him down, cripple him into quiet cries against the mattress. He shook again, but this time it wasn't because of the cold. Dean gaped, not knowing what to say, his own chest tightening as his throat went dry.

He'd heard about homeless students – that they flew under the radar, sleeping at friend's dorms or in lobbies. That they had to remain underground because if they were discovered, they might not be able to attend. It was in one of his social classes that he'd even learned such people existed, but he'd never encountered one. Hadn't even thought to consider that people in such dire straits would be left out to fend for themselves in situations like this. In storms that could kill them.

He understood now why Castiel's bags were so full, and why he was so thin.

"Cas," Dean whispered, reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder. "When was the last time you ate something?" Because he was clearly malnourished, which wasn't helping him recover any from the cold. "C'mon, just tell me," Dean encouraged quietly, leaning closer to him. "Let me help you."

Castiel's lashes lifted slightly, the blue clouding with tears. "Yesterday m-morning," he stuttered out, his face visibly cringing. As if he were admitting to some kind of crime or bad behavior.

Dean pursed his lips, it taking all his self-control to remain in check.

"You need to eat something," he decided firmly before pushing himself to his feet. Walking across his dorm to his cabinet, he pulled it open before finding a package of microwave macaroni and a bagel from his morning breakfast. Filling the first with water before shoving it in the microwave, he stuffed the second down the toaster (the toaster he wasn't supposed to have), and turned back to the bed. He waited in silence for both foods to finish, contemplating what he was supposed to do. No answer came to him however, and after spreading butter on the bagel halves (the only spread he had in his fridge) and stirring the pasta, he made his way back over to the bed, sitting down on the edge as Castiel slowly sat up under the covers.

He didn't look at Dean, couldn't, and took the food offered with his eyes turned toward the quilt. Part of it fell from his shoulder as he did, Dean taking it upon himself to reach out and re-wrap him. They sat in silence for a moment – that they were in their underwear hardly seeming relevant. Until Castiel had finished one half of the bagel, his hand falling to his covered leg as he let out a shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he muttered, voice heavy. "For this. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dean leaned back beside him, eyebrows pulled thoughtfully together. "I'm just glad I found you before…" The implication was obvious, a few more tears dropping down Castiel's cheeks. "Do you always go this long without eating?"

"N-no," he shook his head. "I.. I don't get paid till tomorrow. And most of my last paycheck went to tuition last week." He gulped, breath becoming shaky again. "I know there's a student pantry here, but you can only go once every two weeks, and I don't have anywhere to keep any food anyway. Once tomorrow got here, I would have been fine, I would have- I would have-" He was getting upset again, Dean reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder. "That's why I re-rejected you earlier," he managed to whimper out, his hands trembling so severely that he had to set the food in his lap. "I haven't been able to wash any of my c-clothes in a week and I don't have any money to pay for anything and I-I-"

"Hey, it's alright, Cas, it's okay," Dean rubbed his shoulder gently, smiling softly. "I think I would have rather you said no because you didn't like me, but I'll take it." Because almost anything would have been better than this.

"I do like you," Castiel assured brokenly. "And I'm _sorry_."

"You don't need to apologize, Cas," Dean repeated, scooting closer to him before wrapping him up in his arms again. "This isn't your fault." He laid his chin as Castiel's head, far more comforted by the fact that he was finally warm, though the locks were a little damp from the melted snow. "Cas, why… why are you like this? Why don't you have a dorm or somewhere to stay?"

It was personal, sure, but they were sitting in their underwear wrapped up in Dean's mom's quilt. So, what the hell.

"I can't afford the tuition if housing is included," he explained quietly. "And my parents can't afford to pay. The law requires that they do, but they can't. They… they never wanted me to go to college anyway, but…"

"How long have you been living like this?" Dean pulled back away from him again, finally managing to draw those blue eyes up to his own.

"Almost two years…"

Dean gaped, his whole body feeling as though it were weighed down by rocks. Or lead.

"Jesus, Cas," he awed. "Why didn't you stay with anyone? Why didn't you say something?"

"I can't do that…" he murmured, sounding quite as though it was an issue of being a bother, or a burden.

"Yes you fucking can!" Dean said rather harshly, Castiel shying away from him. "You almost _died_, do you realize that?!" Yes, he was somewhat angry, but also frustrated. Not so much at Cas – though there was that – but at the situation itself. "You should have pulled one of your coworkers aside and told them, you should have gone home with someone! Not just… stood out in the cold! What the hell?!"

Castiel didn't know what to say.

"You didn't even have to tell them the whole truth!" He could have made something up – that his bus wasn't running and he couldn't get home. Something! "Someone would have helped you if you'd just asked!"

"I can't always ask for help!" Castiel finally rebuked, gulping back against his hurt and guilt over what Dean was saying. "You don't know what it's like! To beg and- and use people! I can't do that!"

"You'd rather freeze to death?!"

"I didn't mean for this to happen!"

Silence.

Dean sighed, looking away. He considered that maybe he'd let his temper get the better of him, but this whole thing was just so stupid. It shouldn't even be allowed, that people slipped through the cracks like this. There should be someone there to catch them, someone to do something.

Castiel's lip was trembling, but his jaw held resolutely. Which softened Dean's resolve some.

"Cas, what if I hadn't been there? What if no one found you till morning?" His shoulders slumped. "You be _dead_. Don't you get that?"

Castiel looked down at the quilt again, eyes blinking rapidly. "I didn't know where to go…" Or what to do, or think. It wasn't as easy as Dean wanted it to be – it was never that easy.

"Well, now you do," Dean determined stiffly. "You're not homeless anymore." Reaching out, Dean took Cas's hand in both his own, holding the only moderately warm fingers while his thumbs slowly began to message his skin.

"Wh-what?" Castiel stammered, clearly shocked – if his wide eyes had anything to say.

"This is a single room, but it's not that much smaller than the double ones," Dean shrugged. "I never minded having a roommate."

"Dean, I can't-"

"Yes you can," Dean nodded, smiling as he held Castiel's hand tighter. "I'm not paying for this anyway – it's a scholarship room – and I'm not giving you any choice. If you don't move in here, I'm going to hunt you down every day after you get out of work and carry you back. Trust me, you're not that heavy."

Castiel gulped, once again assaulted by emotion he couldn't control. Because he was so cold, and weak, and just _tired_. Tired of having nowhere to go, of wondering where he'd eat next and at what cost. Whether someone would notice why he had his bags with him all the time, or why his clothes weren't clean. It was so exhausting, and the weight was so heavy.

"I know we don't know each other that well, or at all," Dean chuckled shortly, "but I don't care. I just want you safe, Cas. Because no one should have to live like this."

Those green eyes blinked, concern and compassion apparent in their depths. Not pity, or ridicule, or even sympathy. Just understanding, and a certain, huge amount of kindness that Castiel had never encountered before.

"Dean…" he couldn't help that more tears were falling – that he seemed to have an endless supply. They streaked down his cheeks in salty lines, Dean letting go of his hand to reach up and wipe them away. Castiel immediately took hold of them again however, mouth quivering as he held them tightly in his own.

As Dean leaned forward and, eyes closed, kissed the tears away instead. Lightly, with butterfly touches. Soft and short, but so meaningful and important. More important than almost anything Castiel had experienced in a long, long time.

Because it'd been nearly two years since he'd been close to anyone. Since he'd allowed himself to be.

"Thank you," he managed to whisper out, closing his own eyes as Dean's nose brushed his. "Thank you, Dean."

He took a silently gasping breath as their lips pressed softly together, one that became a sigh as he gave in. As he stopped fighting and decided that, perhaps, it was okay this way. That letting Dean help him might not be such a bad idea.

That, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have someone to call home.

* * *

><p>Follow me on tumblr - DemonDogDean<p> 


	8. Hey, It's Obvious

_Best friends Dean and Cas drink a little too much and accidentally end up in bed together._

_Rated T._

**Hey, It's Obvious**

Neither of them had really expected to wake up, naked, wrapped in each other's arms, to say the least. But that was apparently what the morning had in store for them, whether they wanted it or not.

"Dean," Cas was blinking, his head throbbing some as a result of their late night drinking previously. "Dean, wake up." He tapped the other man on the back, who was sprawled out on top of him, Cas's legs still swathed around his lower half.

"Hm, what?" Dean started, head leaning up slightly as he scrunched his nose against the daylight streaming in through their apartment windows. "Wha-time-is-it?"

"I don't know," Cas had closed his eyes again, yawning as he laid his arm across his eyes, shielding them as best he could. "You need to get off me though, my leg's asleep." A command that, really, wasn't so unheard of between them. Just, usually, they still had clothes on, and weren't sticky from whatever "activities" they'd partaken in prior.

Because – despite having been friends since high school – Dean and Cas had never slept together before. They were best friends, when it came down to it, and whether there'd been attraction between them or not, it'd always been pushed to the wayside by other things. By Dean's parents' divorce, or Cas's mom getting cancer, and then recovering from said cancer. Or Cas going to England for study abroad. Sure they were roommates, but college life had always been hectic, demanding of things they'd always claimed were more important.

Then they'd graduated. They'd gone out to dinner with their families, and then come back home having drunk a little too much. They'd decided to watch some Doctor Sexy, which had apparently led to Dean with his head in Cas's lap, and Cas with his hands in Dean's hair. And then kissing, and making out, and stripping, and, well, words weren't really necessary for the rest.

"Oh…" Dean said groggily, finally managing to glance down at Cas's bare chest beneath him. His eyes then travelled lower as he pushed himself up, that green narrowing near their middles before he squinted back up at Cas. "We're naked."

"Yes, thank you," Cas said rather curtly, resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Now, will you please get up? I can't feel my leg."

"Yeah, sure." It was Dean's turn to yawn as he slowly pushed himself into sitting. He didn't bother hiding how his eyes travelled down between his best friend's legs, or how a somewhat approving smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

Cas tightened his jaw. "Really?"

Dean shrugged, smile blooming further as he sank back on his heels.

Head shaking, Cas pulled his legs from around Dean, scowling as he stretched out the one still not quite responding. He was aware that Dean was still ogling him, and tried to ignore the warmth in his chest that didn't want to object to it. They were supposed to be _friends_, after all.

Unfolding his own body, Dean leaned back in the couch, taking a deep breath before he cleared his throat.

"Hey, Cas," his voice was suggestive – in that dude-bro way Dean was prone too, and Cas could already feel his sigh coming on.

"What?"

"Nice penis."

"You're an infant." Finally regaining feeling in his leg, Cas pushed himself into standing, shaking out his foot as he stumbled away from the couch. The bathroom was his destination.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said again, Cas pausing to turn his head over his shoulder, eyebrows raised questioningly. "Nice ass."

He did roll his eyes then, only a short scoff of a laugh leaving his throat as he set himself forward once again.

"Hey, Cas."

"Oh my god, what?!" He whipped around fully, hands going to his hips as he took in Dean's crooked smile, the same expression trying to slither its way onto his own face despite how he fought it. He had to stay firm, and disapproving of Dean's behavior.

Dean, who was staring at him through a haze of lazy sunlight, biting his bottom lip only quickly before finally managing to speak again.

"Will you marry me?"

He said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and it took Cas a moment to really realize what the question even was. He blinked, his expression faltering, and considered for a moment whether Dean was even being serious.

But he knew Dean – they'd been best friends the last six years. This wasn't the type of thing Dean would joke about, especially after they'd just drunkenly had sex. For a moment, Cas's stomach burst with anxiety, the weight of the inquiry dropping down on him eons of societal pressure and significance.

But then Dean's smile widened a little more, and his stare met Cas's knowingly.

Because it really _was_ that obvious.

His own grin returning, Cas pulled his arms up and crossed them over his chest. "Yeah, I guess." It was said with as much exasperation as possible, Cas throwing in a sigh for good measure. He didn't look away from Dean though – Dean, who was on his feet and rounding the coffee table. Who stood before him with that big grin still, and who reached out, held Cas's cheeks gently in his hands, and kissed him.

"I don't have a ring," he admitted quietly as he pulled away – just enough to speak. "I wasn't exactly expecting to do this." Which was reasonable. Sure they'd probably spent more time together since becoming friends than they had with anyone else on the planet, but they'd never actually been on an official date.

"Oh, well, that's the deal breaker," Cas replied, finally allowing a full smile to stretch his lips. "You're never prepared for anything."

"That hurts, Cas," he feigned before indulging another kiss. "I _can_ give you something though," he rubbed his hips forward into Cas's, "if you'll accept it."

"If I have to," Cas muttered, though he really was more than willing. Always had been.

And would be for the rest of his life.

* * *

><p>Just something short. Takes place in the same universe as <strong>Perfectly Okay<strong>.

Follow my Tumblr - DemonDogDean


End file.
